And Years Went By
by Keelywolfe
Summary: He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford... McCoy/Spock/Kirk
1. Chapter 1

And Years Went By  
By Keelywolfe

Summary: _He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford with the same grace as the boys back home would swill backwoods moonshine. And he was drinking it alone._

* * *

Say what you would about the Saurians, they knew how to make a_damned_ fine glass of spirits. Just looking at it was an experience; even the cheapest brandy that was affordable to a poor commissioned officer of Starfleet practically glowed when you poured it, some inner light in the thick amber liquor. The smell of it washed over a person like the sweetness of a long-forgotten dream and when a fellow finally took a sip, the bare wash of it over the tongue warmed you like standing in Georgia sunshine in August.

And that was the cheap stuff.

The glass McCoy was sipping right then wasn't cheap by any means and the taste and smell of it would have a connoisseur weeping on the floor for just one more drop. It was just a shame at that moment the depth of flavor was escaping him and it sure as hell wasn't warming the coldness that had settled into his chest.

The small viewscreen on his desk was still open with a message and he'd been expecting it; of course he had. Their last mission had been whatever the Starfleet approved term for the word clusterfuck was from the very start. No fault of theirs and that was what it would come out to in the end. It was just getting through the red tape and the waiting for the higher authority to come to the same conclusion that everyone else had.

Being the youngest captain ever to head a ship might be good for the ego but it sure as hell didn't grease the wheels of bureaucracy much.

McCoy took another sip of his brandy; let the earthy flavor with just a breath of oak wash over him. Didn't look at his viewscreen with its tersely worded message that stated that the captain was still in conference with Starfleet command over the incident and would be unable to meet with him at the designated time. And he sure as hell didn't think about what the message didn't say, it didn't say, _Bones, I'm so sorry, I'll make it up to you, I swear._

It didn't have to say it; he knew James Kirk the same way he knew a well-loved book, like the lines of his daughter's face in the pictures he was sent far too rarely. He knew and he even knew Jim meant it, knew how earnest those blue eyes would have been if he'd actually had time to tell him.

Didn't matter. McCoy tossed back the rest of his drink with a grimace; the richer, smokey notes turned sour when you drank it too fast but that didn't matter, either. He swallowed it down anyway and poured another glass. Held it up to the light and looked at his quarters through a lens of costly liquid amber.

Strange the way life worked. Ten years ago, he wouldn't have believed he'd be here on this ship in the cold recesses of space if someone had come back from the future with photographic evidence. Five years ago he'd climbed on a shuttle with a week's worth of hangovers catching up on him and the implacable urge to be somewhere, anywhere else than where he was right then, and he'd sat his ass down next to something like destiny, looked over at the battered face of the man who would become the best friend he'd ever had. Two years ago and the Federation was turned sideways from the loss of Vulcan, and he'd taken a permanent berth on the Enterprise, these very quarters had been his from the beginning. That brought him to now.

He was the Senior Medical officer on the Starfleet Flagship and that was true, but he was also a maudlin old man who was drinking the most expensive brandy he could afford with the same grace as the boys back home would swill backwoods moonshine. And he was drinking it alone.

Pure self-indulgence, that's what it was. He was sitting here moping because he was alone on his birthday, like a kid who'd dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk in the dog days of summer. His own damned fault, maybe, but he didn't think so. McCoy was not a man who made friends easily and especially not here.

Not with entirely too young faces surrounding him from every angle and no matter how many times he tried to convince himself he wasn't_that_old, damn it, there was no way to make himself believe it. He_felt_old, felt the weight of every day that had ticked past like an old grandfather clock of his life, felt it in his bones. Too young faces but none of them were quite as young as when he'd met them, were they? Even Jim, who had seemed so impossibly youthful when they'd met, was maturing into a competent captain and when the hell had that happened?

Another wasted sip of fine brandy that he was almost too drunk to properly taste and if had been any other day, McCoy's frugal nature would have gotten the best of him and he would have switched to a nice, cheap whiskey, saved the good stuff for a special occasion. Only this was a special occasion and if you couldn't waste the best on your birthday, then there was no point in waiting for tomorrow, now was there? Even if the glass on the other side of the table was empty.

McCoy let his eyes drift nearly shut, gazing out through his lashes as he considered that empty glass. Five years he'd known Jim Kirk and this was the first birthday since then that he'd spent alone.

His first birthday with Jim, damn, now that was a memory. They were best friends, the best of friends but that didn't mean that McCoy had any urge to play any of the games that Jim was so fond of. Didn't spend his evenings in bars, didn't traipse back to their quarters in the wee hours of the mornings, stinking of sex , _filthy_sex, didn't have any interest in that. He'd done his time as a wild student when he was in Med school and just being a student again had been bad enough as far as was he was concerned. No need to do a repeat of the dumb shit he'd done back then.

Jim had known all that and other people would probably be astonished as how thoughtful he could actually be, when he tried. Without McCoy murmuring a word about what day it was, Jim had stayed home that night, bought him a very nice bottle of brandy and the two of them had sat there and killed it between them. Had sat there and Jim had listened when McCoy actually talked about his ex-wife, something he hadn't done since he'd mentioned the divorce. Just sat there and absorbed all the bitterness that McCoy was pouring off of him like acrid sweat, until a knot that he hadn't even realized was still sitting in his guts had eased, and he could laugh, just a little, the resentment easing into something that didn't cut.

"Y'know," McCoy had said, peering into his nearly empty glass, "I think the only thing I'll miss about her is from today." He had tipped back the last of his brandy, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he rasped out a laugh. " 'Bout the only time that woman would ever use her mouth for something useful."

Jim hadn't laughed, only a smirk curved his lips, slouched back in his own chair with a sweet alcohol haze shining his eyes, "Are you telling me the only time she ever blew you was on your birthday?"

"Guess I am," McCoy had shrugged, drunk enough and warmed enough that the memory hadn't hurt, not too much. "She could use her mouth pretty well when she wanted to."

And Jim had laughed, his own mouth soft and pink in the light, and McCoy would swear it was the brandy that made him stare, not the flick of Jim's tongue over them, wetting them before he had murmured. "I bet I can do better."

And he had, holy blue fuck, he had. The memory was almost as sweet as having Jim here right now, almost, when he'd started to laugh it off at the time, trailed into silence when Jim slithered out of his seat to his knees because he'd meant it; of course he'd meant it, crawled up between McCoy's legs, slow and smooth as he'd neatly opened the fly of his pants, ready to let him say no, ready to let McCoy push him away. Like he could have, would have, damn, that _mouth_. He'd watched the whole time, watched dark lashes flutter down over too-blue eyes, watched those pretty lips open so he could push inside hot, slick wetness. Watched Jim's cheeks hollow and fill as he'd sucked, watched until the weight of his coming orgasm was crawling up his spine and then he'd just tightened his hands in Jim's sleek hair and come hard into his welcoming throat.

McCoy didn't remember when he'd closed his eyes, lost in that particular little memory, but opening them only brought him a view of two empty glasses. He filled his own again, drank half of it down before he even tried to remember his second birthday. One drunken blowjob between friends could be dismissed; McCoy couldn't even pretend to be as worldly as Jim but even he knew that. Don't talk about it the next day, give it a mental write-off and all was well.

Until the next year and one drunken birthday blowjob was a write-off but two was the start of a tradition and that time he'd thrown his head back, clenched his hands into Jim's hair from the beginning and fucked that eager mouth. Jim had obligingly let him, rode every insistent thrust, every perverse little hair pull like he'd been made for it and drank down every drop that McCoy had spilled like he was finer than the brandy he'd bought.

The third year McCoy had brought the brandy because he was damned sure that getting two presents from your best friend wasn't fair and besides, he had better taste when it came to liquor.

The fourth year...McCoy shifted in his seat, leaned forward to pour another couple fingers of liquor and didn't even flinch when it slopped over the edge of his glass, only sucked his fingers clean and didn't think about the fourth year because that had happened here, right here in these quarters and he'd been sitting in this chair with every other word out of his mouth either 'fuck' or 'please'.

That was what his sex life had consisted of, a yearly pity blowjob from his best friend and now that he'd lost that...fuck it, he had no idea what came after that. Jerking off to old gynecological medical journals maybe, that seemed appropriately pathetic.

Shit, when had he gotten to be such a moony drunk? It was just as well Jim wasn't here to say the same thing, with those pretty, soft lips that weren't going to be wrapped around McCoy's dick this year. Not this year, not again, not when he'd found himself a steady partner. Not that McCoy hadn't already known; he was old and grouchy but that didn't mean he was stupid, thank you. This year he would have sufficed to just have Jim here, maybe a little drunk, a little flirty. Jim was his best friend and, shit, if McCoy hadn't been missing him. Just because a certain pointy-eared —

The door chime startled him, almost sent him sprawling to the floor and that was pathetic enough but the lurch in his chest was worse, wretched little bit of rising hope that it wasn't someone with some health-related question or another that they deemed too personal to risk talking about in Medical, not a chart that he hadn't signed, or something equally pointless. Just now, the only person he wanted on the other side of that door was someone who cared about him.

It was just a fucking shame that the person he got was the one who didn't care about anything at all.

"What the hell do you want?" Tumbled out of his mouth before he could formulate something better, a little more appropriate for a higher ranking officer that he had to work with every day and who tomorrow wouldn't be sitting in his thoughts as the fucking bastard who was stealing away the best friend he'd ever had.

Say what you would about Spock's mama, not that anyone would, but she must've taught him some manners because he never batted an eye. "Doctor," he said, inclining his head slightly. "May I come in?"

"Why?" McCoy asked, not even bothering to try for better.

"The Captain asked me to join you at your quarters. I believe there is a ritual of sorts that you are undertaking and as he is unable to assist, he asked that I partake."

McCoy couldn't have stopped his laughter if Spock had given him that little neck pinch. He'd be on the ground unconscious and it would have still been pouring out of him, helplessly, honest humor because he'd always known the universe had it out for him but he'd just never realized how much.

Spock only stood there, hands clasped behind him as he waited for McCoy to get over his oh, so human hysteria, scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand hard enough that he staggered a little. Never had much in the way of liquor legs, anyway.

"I surely do appreciate the offer," McCoy managed finally, still fighting down the occasional chuckle, "But I believe I read that Vulcans don't drink."

"Alcohol does not affect us as it does humans," Spock agreed. "However, it is my understanding that the true requirement here is commiseration. This, I believe, I can provide."

Commiseration. Right. McCoy leaned against the doorway, let his head tip back against it and closed his eyes. Maybe the universe didn't have it out for him; maybe this was just proof that Jim was out of his damned mind. These two together; it was almost more than his brain could bend around sober and right now it was a damn near impossibility.

Like two flavors that refused to mingle, chocolate and asparagus, marshmallows and caviar. Jim, his Jim that he knew painfully well, who all but exuded every kind of passion out of his pores with Spock, who wouldn't know passion if it leapt up and bit him in the tiny package he carried behind him that passed for his ass.

But damn it, Jim was his friend and it might be his birthday but maybe it was past time he gave Jim a present for a change.

He moved to the side enough to let Spock past him. "Come on in."

~~*~~

Fifteen minutes later, he was wondering what the hell he'd been thinking. If drinking alone was wretchedly pathetic then drinking while someone else just sat and watched was damn near unbearable.

Maybe it wasn't just the watching but who was watching that made it all the worse. Spock was staring at him like he was a particularly interesting puzzle to be solved or, hell, maybe he stared at all drunken fools like that. McCoy had never been good at reading his lack of expression, not like Jim who seemed to border just on the knife-edge of telepathy, when he wanted.

That was key, wasn't it? When he wanted, when he _wanted_, Jim was a compassionate, empathic human being, just this side of heroic, really, and McCoy wasn't quite sure what it said about him that he could even see Jim like that when he'd also been the one patching him up from his attempts at heroism. He'd washed blood off his hands more times than he could count, hands dripping and cold with it, and then watched as Jim stood right back up and went back for another round.

So yeah, when he wanted, Jim was as compassionate as he was passionate. But sending Spock to him today was barely two steps from pleading with him to play nice, when all McCoy wanted to do was cry in his damned beer and pass out.

Thanks a fucking lot, pal.

But since it was Jim, he was going to make the attempt to behave. That was an even payment for four blowjobs where Jim had nearly sucked his IQ out through his dick.

"Mind telling me what the hell I'm supposed to be talking about," McCoy slurred to the ceiling. Looking at Spock looking at him was making eyeballs ache.

"I confess, I am uncertain. Jim did not specify a topic of conversation."

McCoy risked a look to see Spock had leaned forward, his hands folded together as he regarded McCoy steadily. Goddamned pointy-eared bastard. McCoy was familiar with Vulcan physiology; he knew that they damned well had to blink. It wasn't the stare that made a sudden burn start low in his gut, no, that was from one little word, a name that he hadn't even noticed Spock had started using.

He wasn't jealous, he told himself, tossing back another glass of brandy, wiping away the rivulets that leaked carelessly out of the sides of his mouth and filled the glass back up to the brim. It was just that Jim was his best friend, the best he'd ever had, and he hadn't anticipated having to share him like this. Not today.

A hand on the back of his own stalled him, startled him so much that brandy spilled out, splashing a wide pool of amber over the tabletop. "Careful," McCoy hissed, swiping up what he could and sucking it from his fingers. He would have two-handed it, might have swayed down to slurp it right from the tabletop but Spock hadn't let him go.

If Spock thought he was going to come in here and lecture about how unhealthy drinking was to the ship's chief medical officer, then Jim was going to be unpleasantly surprised to have his First Officer sent back to him in fucking pieces....only, Spock hadn't spoken. Wasn't even holding his hand down really and when McCoy warily picked up his glass with his left hand, Spock didn't say a word. Only touched him, lightly, almost stroked the back of his hand and down to his fingertips.

Well, what do you know? Maybe it was some Vulcan form of soothing? Maybe they did actually feel compassion or pity, whatever it was that Vulcans felt towards helpless, drunken Humans. Who the hell knew; even with only a bare handful of Vulcans clinging to the galaxy, they were so damned private, so internal, that no one knew what the hell any of 'em were doing. Except Jim; Jim would know. Pretty damned inconvenient that he wasn't here right now, wasn't it?

Whatever it was, it actually felt pretty good. Relaxing. McCoy let his hand drift down to rest on the table and Spock followed it, long, cool fingertips sliding over his knuckles, tracing little patterns that could be obscenities in Vulcan for all he knew, he'd never been very good at languages. Latin was damned well enough for him.

Not that any Latin was going to come spouting through his sodden brain anytime soon. The best he managed was a sigh, closing his eyes even as he made sure he kept a good grip on his glass since he had no intention of licking brandy from the floor. Odd that Spock's hands felt so cool, weren't Vulcans supposed to be hotter than Humans? But he was, those lingering fingertips were as gently cool as a river in summertime.

Cooler still on his overheated face and McCoy flinched, nearly spilled brandy down his pant leg when Spock moved suddenly, shifting to crouch on the floor in front of him and clasping McCoy's face in both of those cool hands. He stared at Spock blearily, confused. Whatever this little bit of Vulcan custom was, it sure was strange. He didn't think he'd ever seen Spock just touch someone like this and to feel it was just plain odd.

"Perhaps we should simply forgo further conversation," Spock said, softly. "It has always been...difficult, between us."

McCoy might have asked him what he meant, might have pulled away and finished off his glass before he dropped the damned thing. Might have, if Spock hadn't leaned forward and pressed their mouths together, hot tongue darting between McCoy's parted lips as if to lick the taste of brandy out of it. It was proof of how drunk he really was, how starved for contact, that at first all McCoy did was lean into it, their teeth clacking painfully as he twisted, sucking on the tip of Spock's tongue and tasting faint blood, had he bitten himself, had Spock, fuck, Spock--

He yanked away, barely registering the wet slop of liquid over his knee as his glass finally clattered to the floor. "What in the blue fuck are you doing?" McCoy sputtered out, licking his own lips and tasting, Jesus, that was not brandy on his mouth, not at all.

Spock's mouth was open and wet, and just the sound of his breathing, too quick and sharp, made an ache start in McCoy's groin. Dark eyes blinked up at him, clearly confused. "It was my understanding the culmination to this ritual is a sexual act, preferably one of an oral nature."

Ritual? "Did Jim tell you this was some sort of Human religious rite or something?" McCoy demanded. "Because if he did, I'm gonna—"

Spock looked at him like he'd said something spectacularly stupid, even for him. "Doctor, I have spent the better part of a decade amongst Humans. My mother was also Human. I am quite familiar with most Human religious rites, including many that would be considered obscure by most. When I said ritual, I was only speaking of the traditional one between you and Jim. It does end with a sexual act, does it not?"

Well, yeah, it always had, but that didn't mean he wanted some green-blooded devil to act as a stand-in. He wasn't Jim, nothing _like_ Jim, even on his knees, and it was damned hard to think with too much booze sloshing through his veins and burning in his gut, and with smooth Vulcan hands tracing along the back of his hands again and, Lord, Spock was leaning down to kiss his fingertips, licking just the tip of each one, dark eyes flicking closed. That had to be the most emotion he'd ever seen on that normally expressionless face, something like want twisting over it.

Words came to McCoy sluggishly, thickly, "Jim is...he's my friend."

Spock had one of his hands in both of his own, turning it over to press soft kisses into the palm, murmuring into the cup of his hand, "Are we not friends?"

No, they weren't friends, not like him and Jim, there was no one like Jim, but Spock was nuzzling against his hands like they were some kind of fucking erogenous zone and hell, maybe they were. He felt like stone locked behind the zipper of his pants and he was way too drunk for this kind of thinking, "Sure," he sighed, sagging back in his seat and holding both hands out, offering. "Have at it."

Just his luck that Spock had apparently had enough of getting off on McCoy's hands and he pulled away, paid no attention to the curses that were already stuttering out of McCoy's throat, goddamned teasing—but McCoy bit them off when Spock settled down on his knees, leaning in to press his face against McCoy's belly and inhale, scenting him maybe, like a damned dog and he might have said so if it hadn't made lust stutter its way through the alcoholic smog smothering him. Cool hands pushed up his shirt, sliding over his bare chest to pluck lightly at his nipples even as Spock licked lower, tangling his tongue softly in the faint trail of hair leading down to his pants.

Something about the way that Spock efficiently opened his trousers, tugging them down and out of the way, made it all right for McCoy to touch, finally, sliding his hands into that perfect, dark hair, mussing it. It felt different than human hair, heavier, hot silk gripped in his fists and Spock groaned softly as McCoy's fingernails scratched against his scalp, his breath hot enough to seep through his shorts.

His own groan was embarrassingly high when Spock leaned down and buried his face into McCoy's lap, did that same scenting sort of inhalation with almost ludicrous eagerness and, Christ, maybe he'd actually gotten drunk enough to fall down and crack his head open, maybe this was just a last ditch rush of insanity before his brain finally called it quits. Even drunk, saturated in booze inside and out, this didn't quite seem real.

Except for Spock's hands yanking his shorts out of the way, careful to pull up the waistband so's not to catch his cock in them. Except for Spock doing that same sort of snuffling breathing over his bare skin, nose nudging against his balls and upward before his tongue followed it, licking the glossy wetness already welling at the tip of his cock before wrapping his lips around it and sucking hard enough that McCoy's eyes rolled back a little, hands clenching tight in that too-slick hair.

"Goddamn it," McCoy sobbed out, barely aware of saying anything at all, hips shoving up and up, his cock insisting that all that wet heat was perfect, thank you much, so get fucking deeper while you can. He wondered dimly if Vulcans even had a gag reflex, one little tidbit that he didn't remembering reading in any biology book. Didn't seem to matter one way or another, not when he was balls-deep down Spock's throat and he just rode every thrust easily, no, eagerly, sucking and licking with a mouth hotter than a sidewalk in July.

Shit, if this was what Jim was getting every day of the week, twice on Sundays, then McCoy was forgiving him for everything, anything, for letting him have it just this once. Hell with it, Jim was the best friend ever.

It was just a damned shame he was too drunk to last, snarling wordlessly up at the ceiling and jerking his hips up, once, twice, orgasm clapping through him like thunder and just the feel of Spock swallowing around him made him whimper, quaking through every little flicker of tongue, the faintest scrape of teeth until Spock finally let him go, pressing one last, soft kiss against the tip.

McCoy slumped back in his chair, felt like the very definition of ridden hard and put away wet. He slit his eyes open, every breath out of him more of a wheeze, and Spock was still kneeling there, unreadable eyes watching him and it might have been more disconcerting if his mouth hadn't been darker and faintly swollen, all evidence there of the fact that he sucked dick with skill that rivaled...

Having the floor suddenly under his back was something unexpected, swerving neatly off the well beaten path of birthday gifts and into unfamiliar territory, and McCoy might have protested, at the very least a, "What the fuck?" if cool glass hadn't pressed lightly against his mouth. He opened automatically to the spill of brandy between his lips, more than he would have drunk himself, actually, but Spock held the bottle steadily until McCoy's head was swimming with it again. Spock's mouth followed it, tongue probing softly and the salt taste of himself on that mouth was the best chaser possible. Better to just kiss that mouth drowsily, to not think, barely registering that Spock was easing his trousers down and off, moving him easily. Arranging him.

A niggling little suspicion started working its way through the stuporing fog of alcohol and sex still hampering him, but thinking was just so much damned work. He was more than half-asleep, licking lazily into Spock's mouth as those cool hands rubbed his thighs, encouraging him to draw his knees up and why not, why not just lay here and let Spock—

"Ah!" he yelped, eyes flying open as Spock pressed a finger between the curves of his ass and into him, obscenely slick with some kind of lubricant, and he was already too relaxed for it to more than twinge, booze and orgasm numb, even as Spock kissed him again.

"Relax," Spock said softly, "Relax, I only want to pleasure you." Almost crooned it to him and Christ, he'd never have guessed the bastard had that in him, seduction trembling in that deep voice that he was mostly obeying before he even thought about it.

"There," Spock murmured, the pleased tone sending a jolt of liquid pleasure through McCoy, almost as much as his sliding finger, and the withdrawal made him start, made him shiver even as he let Spock move him again, let Spock rest between his legs as he tipped his head up for another kiss.

"You feel good," McCoy slurred out, because it was true and he had to say it, hot skin against him battering away the seeping cold of the floor. The confusing mixture of cool hands mixed with the hot hips sliding against his own, the pressure of Spock's dick against him, was it, did Vulcan's have—yes, he knew that, flicking bio-texts jabbing behind his eyes until Spock began to push inside him and McCoy hissed out a whimper, let Spock swallow it into his own groan and fuck, he felt _huge_, and it had been years since he'd had so much as a finger in him, years stacked on years.

"As do you," Spock breathed and McCoy opened his eyes, looked at the face above him. Spock was watching him, always damned well watching him, but never like this before. Not with sweat leaving damp trails at his temples, his hair a tousled mess, not with that heat shining in his dark eyes, impeccable control shattered.

McCoy didn't even think; tangled his hands into that wild hair and pulled Spock down to kiss that wet, swollen mouth as fiercely as he could, muffling his moans into it as Spock moved strongly into him, hands braced under McCoy's knees holding him easily, spreading him out even more. It hurt, _hurt_, Spock cramming into him almost more than he could take, would be more if Spock wasn't making his own little noises above him, sounds that tangled into the lust still burning hot in McCoy's gut.

A soft, questioning kiss against his temple made McCoy's eyes flicker open again, blinking against the unexpected concern in the dark eyes above him.

"You are not a virgin," Spock said, not quite a question and he strangled out a laugh, didn't say he might as well be, had been so long he was practically reborn.

"No, damn it," McCoy gritted out. "I'm not...just, just fuck me you green—"

He choked off the last of it, nearly shouting as Spock pulled out and thrust in again, hard enough that he felt the slap of balls against his ass, and again, ramming into him with real purpose and all McCoy could do was hang on, swimming in the twin vertigo of expensive brandy and fucking. Spock wasn't kissing him so much as rubbing their mouths together and McCoy grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him down hard, biting and tonguing in rhythm to the hard cock moving inside him.

"Be careful of the ears, they're really sensitive," came dryly from near the door, a familiar voice raised just enough to be heard over their probably entirely too-loud enthusiasm and McCoy froze, every ounce of burning lust in him turning to ashes.

Which would have been easier to bear if Spock would have stopped instead of only slowing, hips rocking softly as he barely moved and each tiny thrust made McCoy jolt, biting his lip hard and he might have struggled, might have hit the fucking pointy-eared _bastard_ to get to him to stop if Spock hadn't threaded their fingers together and held them down over his head, effectively pinning him in every way possible.

Now was the probably the time to plead drunkenness, to look his best friend in the eye and beg forgiveness because there was a blowjob and then there was out and out fucking, and he'd never told Spock no, he hadn't explained that this wasn't part of the bargain.

Instead, he choked, couldn't swallow against the sudden thickness in his throat and finally McCoy shut his eyes so he didn't have to see at all, hid himself in mental invisibility because he couldn't look into those impossibly blue eyes right now and see betrayal in them, couldn't stand to lose his best friend just because it hadn't occurred to his sodden brain to fucking well say no. Tried not to feel Spock still inside him, his own cock still bouncing hard against his belly because it didn't give a damn that McCoy's life was shattering around him right now.

Soft footsteps approaching and he could feel Jim crouch next to him, gentle, oh, so gentle hand in his hair that he leaned against helplessly, so damned grateful that Jim would still touch him without beating him bloody.

"You were supposed to wait for me," Jim said, reproachfully and damned if he couldn't feel the tremor of Spock suppressing a laugh, the faintest vibration inside that made McCoy gasp and try to move against the hands that were still holding him down.

"Illogical," Spock panted, "The Doctor's temperament would not have allowed me to remain until your arrival. If I had not begun without you—" his voice cracked on the last word as McCoy clenched his muscles tight because he could do that much, he thought with dizzy triumph, yelped aloud as it earned him one deep thrust almost as a warning before Spock slowed again, fucking him with pretty amazing control considering just who their audience was.

"The damned doctor is right here, you—" McCoy bit it off as Jim pressed two fingers into his mouth, stroking them against his tongue.

"I see that," Jim said, and there was a touch of heat in his voice, not quite anger, but it twinged in McCoy, anyway, "I also see that this isn't a blowjob, Spock. Suppositions?

"If oral stimulation is a requirement, I believe I can arrange it," Spock said and then the fucking bastard pulled out, ignored the sharp sound of protest that gurgled out of McCoy from around Jim's fingers but there wasn't time to even curse before Spock had gently flipped him over, pulled him up on his knees and was already pushing into him again.

"Jesus," McCoy panted out in ragged little gasps, barely managing to push up on his elbows before Spock rocked him with a hard thrust, sent him skittering forward and he might have fallen on his foolish, drunken face if Jim hadn't caught him beneath the chin, tilting his head up for a kiss that sent McCoy's head swimming, they'd never, not any birthday before, but hell, this wasn't like any other birthday and Jim was biting tenderly at his lip, pulling back to rub a thumb wetly over his lower lip.

"Bones?" Jim whispered, hoarsely, that one little word catching in a way McCoy had never heard before, met blue, blue eyes with his own startled ones. "Please?"

It didn't quite register at first, having to filter through brandy-soaked thoughts that were tangled up tight in the Vulcan making breathy, grunting noises behind him as he fucked his way in deeper, his hands so tight on McCoy's hips that he knew there would be bruises there tomorrow. It didn't hit him until his eyes caught on Jim's free hand, resting hesitantly on the fly of his pants and McCoy's mouth watered instantly, would have already leaned in to nuzzle at the rough fabric of Jim's uniform pants if Spock hadn't yanked him back hard, driving a loud cry out of him, God, so good.

"Yeah," McCoy gasped out, because he couldn't reach out, had to keep his hands on the floor, "Yeah, I wanna, Jimmy, I—"

He would have said more, drunken words sopping out of him in an endless stream if Jim hadn't cut him off with his own mouth, one hard kiss before the sound of a zipper registered and then he was opening his mouth blindly to the sultry press of Jim's cock against his lips. Moans were spilling out of him from deep down, muffled by the gagging shape of Jim pushing down his throat but they made louder ones come from above, Jim's voice cracking and desperate when McCoy finally sucked, sighing at the luxury of the taste of this mingling with the hard, smooth thrusts inside him.

He was drowning in touch, saturated in a way that he hadn't been in years, maybe never and McCoy sucked hard until he felt a prickle of tension at his temples, felt the way Jim's thighs quivered. It made something like pride surge up in his chest, this was Jim, who'd been fucked everything in sight since long before McCoy had clapped eyes on him, and he was already gulping air above him, rocking with ridiculous gentleness between McCoy's lips.

"Bones, you—" Jim's voice was barely a whisper, as tender as the fingers skating through McCoy's hair. "Fuck," he groaned. "You don't know how long—you don't- Spock..."

He felt the scrabble of hands at his shoulder, fingers that weren't his own linking together and there was no time for resentment, no way to feel anything else but the sudden desperation in Spock's thrusts, hard, hard, enough to force McCoy forward another inch, hands and knees sliding sweatily on the floor. Loud cries mingling over his head, two voice calling out the way he couldn't, his own groans barely a deep vibration and Jim was coming, his mind told him helpfully, he could tell Jim was coming because he could taste it, swallowing desperately against the hot, bitter spurts against the back of his throat, and the sudden heat of it made panic rise in him, this was, what was--- It was battered away almost instantly by the cool brutality of a Vulcan hand suddenly around him, jerking him off with perfect pressure and intensity, of course it would be perfect, fucking yes, his mouth suddenly empty so those loud cries could pour out of him and into Jim's eagerly kissing mouth.

He came to the feel of Jim licking his own taste out of McCoy's mouth, blinkering light behind his eyes and his moan was a piteous little sound, the world around him battering him with sensation, filling him with a burst of heat as Spock stiffened behind him, his fingers never stilling on McCoy's cock until it was too, too much and he had to feebly bat Spock's hand away. Every breath out of him was like a sob, all of it almost more than he could bear and the aftershocks trembling through him were nearly as good as the rest. Jim was still kissing him, gentle presses against tender lips that made McCoy sigh a little and kiss him back.

"Take a deep breath, Doctor," Spock told him softly and he might have told Spock that if he called him doctor again while they were both come-slippery and dripping sweat on the damned floor of his quarters, then Spock was going to leave these same quarters carrying his balls in a jar. Might have told him that if Spock hadn't abruptly pulled out of him and the breath he had drawn left him in a strangled yelp. Yeah, that was going to be sore in the morning, no amount of booze was going to cover up that ache.

"His name is Leonard," Jim said with faint exasperation, told Spock but he murmured it into McCoy's mouth and something about his name, his real name on Jim's lips made McCoy's heart stutter a little, made him kiss a little harder.

"Leonard," Spock repeated agreeably, and McCoy didn't even have time to protest when he was pulled away from Jim's mouth and lifted off the floor completely. There was some complaining he should be doing here, he figured; something about how he could damn well walk so put me the fuck down, but by the time his tongue had worked out how to say it, they were already pushing through the door of his bedroom. To hell with it.

He recognized the softness against his back as his own bunk when Spock laid him down on it, gently ridding him of his shirt before he pulled the blankets over him.

They were leaving him, he realized, a kind of booze-soaked grief rising up in him. He pushed it back down viciously, strangled it back down to where it belonged. He'd gotten what he wanted, twice over, hell, more than that, he'd won the damned birthday lottery this year and tomorrow he'll give himself an early morning injection to chase away the hangover.

The memories he'll have to chase away himself. If they'd invented a medication for that, it'd always be in short supply.

"No, you get on the other side," he heard Jim say softly, slitted his eyes open to squint into the darkness. They went wide when Jim slipped beneath the covers with him, snuggling right up to him as if they always did this, like he'd ever felt Jim completely naked against him.

"You—" McCoy croaked, a certain frozen terror rising in his chest.

"Shut up," Jim told him sleepily. "You can kick us out in the morning."

_I won't_, McCoy's brain whispered fervently, _I won't, I won't--_

"He will not," Spock murmured from behind him, his bare skin degrees hotter than Jim's as he settled beneath the blankets. "He wishes for us to remain."

"Goddamned Vulcans," McCoy mumbled, sighing a little as Spock wrapped one arm around his waist so that his hand rested on Jim.

"Whatever," Jim said, but it was fading away, those weaving drunken fingers still in McCoy's mind were drawing him down into sleep, smothered in warmth and boozy contentment. "You never let _me_ fuck you. Not even on my birthday."

You never asked, McCoy didn't say, drowsing into sleep. He'd never asked, not once, but maybe next time he would, maybe Spock would let him, and then McCoy could say...he could say yes.

He drifted away then; let himself slip down into the doubled embrace around him like a long-forgotten dream, sweet and warm as Georgia sunshine in August.

-finis-


	2. Wished Me Well

Wished Me Well  
By Keelywolfe

Summary: A sequel to And Years Went By. The morning after.

* * *

Waking up with a hangover was an experience in misery that most Humans and quite a few other species were capable of experiencing. Some managed to go through it just once, just long enough to learn that they never wanted to try that again. One morning of heaving and headache was plenty for them, thank you very much, so just one glass will suffice.

Some people, Humans or whatever, never managed to learn the lesson no matter how many times life attempted to teach it to them. They were long familiar with the coolness of the side of the recycling bowl against their face, the chalky aftertaste of the anti-emetic, the sour look of the local pharmaceutical technician as they trudged in still wearing last night's clothes, stinking of their own sour sweat to turn in their credits for, yes, another alcohol metabolizing hypospray.

Then there was the special kind of hangover, the kind that came while you were still drunkenly stupid, marinating in the alcohol that had yet to work its way through your liver, waking up to that first wave of nausea lapping at the back of your throat but still entirely too soused to make it to the 'fresher. That was the kind of hangover that usually required paying for a cleaning service when you finally hit sober.

It was that kind of hangover that made McCoy keep the detoxification and anti-emetic hypo mixture known commonly amongst college students and Starfleet cadets as a flush-n-rush in his bedside table. He might never have learned his lesson about preventing hangovers but he'd damned well learned the one about getting rid of one before there were witnesses. Med school had been a great teacher in more than just medical training.

He knew; before he even cracked open the crust sealing his eyes he knew that it was just that sort of hangover that was awaiting him. He took a moment to orient himself, yes, his head was at the headboard, before he attempted to move and if the mattress next to him seemed a little lumpier than usual, made a faint sound of protest and moved on its own, well, that little mystery was just going to have to wait.

The first edge of queasiness hit before he'd even fumbled the drawer open but he had plenty of practice and he sat on the edge of his bed, one-handing the hypo as he injecting the cool rush of medication into his own neck before he felt more than mildly nauseous.

He slumped to the side a little, sighing at the cool feel of the wall against his face. Damned if he wasn't too old for this. At his age, only fools and alcoholics got this damned drunk; old age was surely going to teach him the lesson about hangovers that his youth had never managed to drive home. The damned remedy didn't kick in as well as it used to; took the edge off but there was no amount of voodoo medicine that would replace sleep that he hadn't gotten. Not that he needed it as often as he had in the past, back when the divorce was still fresh as a new wound, still oozing blood around the hasty bandage that booze had provided, but that was years ago and he was--

Old. His birthday. Christ on a cracker.

Saurian brandy was remarkable in the area of liquor but not much in the way of a memory enhancer. But a soft snore from behind him worked just about as well as an injection of liquid IQ and if it weren't for the worn edges of nausea and disorientation still lining his gut and his vision, he probably would have leapt away from it and landed on his ass on the floor.

Correction; landed on his damned _sore_ ass.

Instead, he was able to edge away from that sound slowly, equal parts caution and an attempt to keep what little food he'd eaten yesterday from turning into an impromptu floor decoration. One foot on the icy floor, goddamned space ships, two, and McCoy was able to turn around uneasily and see the state of his bed.

Just a dim vision in the low lights, but it was exactly as his brain, which was no longer as drunk as he would have liked, informed him it would be; Spock and Jim, still in his bed and very likely naked beneath the blankets. Jim was the snorer, with a spreading patch of drool on the pillow near his open mouth. Of course, he was, he would be. Spock was sleeping like he was barely breathing, like some kind of goddamned vampire and they were sleeping in his bed because the two of them had fucked him to aching, raw gratification in some godforsaken tag-team birthday orgy before plunking themselves into his bed like they belonged there.

The air was chilly on his bare skin and his head was cursing him for daring to move, but McCoy looked at them a little longer, helplessly. Pretty things, they were. In this shadowy light, they both seemed pale against the darker sheets, Spock's hair almost blending into them and Jim's tousled around his head like the heavens most inappropriate halo. Close enough that their faces were nearly touching, Spock edging into the warm spot that McCoy had vacated, soft, parted lips so close to each other. Made him think of the china dolls his mother had kept, their delicate little white faces with painted lips and eyes that he'd never been allowed to lay a hand on, no matter how deft a touch he had. Steady hands, he had, surgeon's hands, but they weren't meant to hold china dolls. Not wives, not daughters, and sure as hell not his two commanding officers, not his friends, his best friend.

McCoy must have been staring at them stupidly for far longer than he should've, long enough for Jim to stir, a faint frown line forming between his eyes as he pulled up out of deeper sleep, and that, friends and neighbors, was a damned good clue that it was time to clear out of here.

Logically, he could've just waited until they woke up, thanked them for their interesting and creative birthday gift, and shown their not-sore-at-all asses to the door. The chrono indicated that it was just at the ass-end of the Gamma shift and as far as he knew, Spock and Jim were both on Alpha, so it would be a safe bet that they'd leave without protest. The next time they saw each other it would all be yesterday's bad news, swept aside and tucked under the rug like so much dust. McCoy figured he was getting to be a regular expert in repression where James Kirk was concerned.

But hell, if he'd been logical, he wouldn't have ended up on the floor with a Vulcan up his ass. He was teetering on the edge of still-drunk, sloshing with brandy that was about to turn his guts into an eruption and sore as hell from sex that felt almost as much like a drunken dream as it did reality.

And since his ears weren't pointy and he wasn't quite within a stone's throw of sober, McCoy took the second option and fled to the bathroom for a long shower. Turned the sonics up, let them pound the old aches out of him and leave new ones in their place, while he leaned against the tiles and closed his eyes. Didn't think of anything more complex than how much he missed the feel of real water, almost hot enough to scald, washing away the leftover birthing pains of yet another year.

"Too old for this," he muttered aloud and the rough scrape of his voice just about confirmed it. Might be time to spare himself the hangover and put his drunken birthday traditions to bed.

That little slip of the mind was almost enough to get him thinking again but McCoy managed to stifle it, stayed in the shower long enough for any extra occupants to sort themselves out and scoot out his door.

Time enough and after a little more sleep, and another injection, he'd head off to Beta shift a little more sociable than he was feeling just now, for another year.

Toweling off wasn't strictly necessary after a sonic shower but Starfleet still kindly provided them and McCoy wrapped one around his waist before hesitating at the door. Shook his head before he could give into the urge to press his ear against it and instead just opened it. It was his damned bedroom, after all, and if you needed to roust out pests, better to do it yourself.

~~*~~

The bedroom lights were much dimmer, only the soft emergency lights glowing palely around the room, and McCoy blinked rapidly, trying to squint into the darkness at his bed. Gone, they had to be gone, he decided. There was no sound of snoring or stirring, no sound at all, and the sour taste at the back of his mouth was only leftover alcoholic heartburn.

A little more sleep would let the medication settle in and McCoy intended to do just that, aching tiredness settling into his bones.

"Come back to bed."

Low, drowsy words in the dark that froze him, dredging his blood with something close to fear. He'd heard Jim's voice like that before, countless times, earthy and heavy with implication, husky-sweet and begging for sex. Only he'd been hearing it on the periphery, standing on the edge and rolling his eyes at Jim's sexual exploits. He hadn't much _been_ one before, wasn't certain he wanted to be one now. This was...it wasn't...

"It's too early for all that thinking you're doing, Bones," Jim chided him sleepily. The bed creaked slightly as he moved and McCoy couldn't tell if all the lumps beneath the blanket were Jim-shapes or if someone else was still with him. "Just come back to bed, okay?"

Wasn't that just like Jim, course it was. Come back to bed. Don't think of all the reasons that this is surely a bad idea. His best friend, the best he'd ever had was lying naked beneath his blankets, asking him to come back to him, and McCoy didn't need to see those eyes to know how blue they were, looking at him through the darkness. Didn't have to kiss that mouth to remember how it had tasted beneath his own.

His feet were shuffling towards the bed before he'd really given them the okay, the swimming half-drunkenness still in his head something like permission. Let the towel fall to the floor and slipped back beneath blankets that were stiflingly warm with all the body heat that wasn't his and that was as unfamiliar to him as any of this, as the warm press of Jim's naked skin against his, the sweet, nuzzling touch of Jim's mouth, searching for his own.

Dry, slightly chapped lips against his own, Jim's mouth a little sour with sleep and nothing else, a brittle reminder that _he_ hadn't been drinking the night before, he'd said...they'd had a plan of some sort, the bastards, they...but the stroke of Jim's tongue against his own was a perfect distraction. Now the kiss was wet, McCoy pushing his tongue almost clumsily against Jim's as he wished for a long pull off the nearly empty bottle that was surely still sitting in the front room.

The bed shifted and there was a cool touch against his back, hands that he knew weren't Jim's made him startle, made him pull away from Jim's mouth with a gasp but Jim followed him with the same determination that he did everything, damn it, pressed their mouths back together hotly, and if McCoy's breathing was a little too harsh, a little too loud in the shuffling quiet then so was Jim's. Jim who mumbled dirty little things under his breath, biting kisses into McCoy's mouth and down the line of his jaw to his ear, tonguing nasty-wet inside.

It made Spock's eerie silence all the worse, the light pant of his breath between McCoy's shoulder almost ghostly. He wasn't drunk enough for this, McCoy thought, panic like a taste at the back of his throat. Not with alcohol finally metabolizing out of him, not with Jim naked and pressed against him, his cock doing its damndest to poke through McCoy's bellybutton.

The fact that he was hard too wasn't lost on him, but fuck, who wouldn't be. He'd have to be damned well dead not to respond to this but that didn't calm his churning gut, the panicked gabble of his thoughts that wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing, this wasn't what they did, he wasn't...he pulled away, snatched his mouth from Jim's and before the tumble of words could escape Spock had jerked him over, covered his mouth with a hard, too-hot kiss.

Spock, fuck, yes, Spock he could bite at, felt the little winces in their vicious kisses. Spock he could pull closer with shaking, uncertain hands, fumble touches over his bare chest, and damn, Vulcan's were hairy bastards, a strange genetic quirk, that was, what the hell did they need all that fur for on a desert planet?

The cool firmness of his hand around McCoy's wrist was oddly calming, curved around the back of his hand so's Spock could press his thumb into the cup of McCoy's palm. Rubbed little circles into it, warming friction, and their hurting kisses eased into something almost gentle, soothing the ache in his lower lip from sharp teeth digging into it, Spock's and his own.

"You are trembling," Spock told him quietly, murmured it damply into McCoy's mouth, like he didn't damn well know that, didn't feel the tremor in his hands, the quiver in his too-quick breath. He was just on the edge of hyperventilating, not drunk enough, not _something_ enough, but that didn't seem so important anymore. Easy enough to forget all the nagging little reasons that this was a rotten idea and slide his fingers against Spock's, threading them together in a way that made him inhale sharply, a tiny sound slipping free from the peach-sweet lushness of his mouth.

Touch telepathy, McCoy remembered, a little hazily, wondered just what it was Spock was feeling from him that made him kiss back so eagerly, thought about that mouth against Jim's and he'd never seen that, come to think of it, never seen them touch except in the barest friendly ways. Yesterday, seeing them kiss might have sent something that wasn't jealousy, wasn't, flaring hotly behind McCoy's eyes so there was really no excuse for how the thought of it now made lust pool into his belly like old-fashioned gasoline. Imaging those even white teeth digging into Jim's soft lower lip, tasting all that sharp brightness, made a low whine of protest start in his dick about how no one was touching it, thanks very much.

Spock's breathing was a quick as an engine by now, hot against McCoy's face, hands gripping McCoy's painfully tight. The sudden warmth of Jim against his back shouldn't have been so unexpected, Jim not being what you'd call patient-like, and the hot length of his cock settled snugly into the crack of McCoy's ass. He couldn't help but stiffen, not that he didn't want it. He was damned sore, _aching_ sore, the memory of Spock fucking him, fucking _bruises_ into him, sent a sharp spangle of heat right down to his dick and he wouldn't say no, he wouldn't, not to Jim, but--

"Jim--" he started, hated the throaty crackle to his own voice, so deep that even he noticed the twang of his accent, lengthening it to "_Jeeyim_".

"Shh, don't, don't, it's all right, I won't. Just want to touch you, I want--" A steady murmur against the back of his neck, matching the throaty little sounds Jim was making between words, the most obscene chant ever as he rubbed against McCoy's ass, sliding damply against him. He didn't even try to push inside, true to his word, but Christ, the feel of it, hot damp skin rubbing and sliding. Spock in front of them, twisting their fingers together, the delicate bones in McCoy's hands grinding painfully as Spock shuddered softly before wrenching them loose.

He protested wordlessly, hated the empty feeling to his hands, fumbled blindly down to where Jim was gripping his hip. Instantly, Jim threaded their fingers together, habit, maybe, used to handsy Vulcans, but the part of McCoy that was dumb with need, greedily wanting this, didn't give a damn about the whys and wherefores, only dragged Jim's hand down between his legs, pressed it against his own aching cock.

Hot, shaky laughter against the back of his neck. "Yeah, I can do that, fuck, yes, Bones, you--" he broke off sharply, Jim's forehead damp as he dropped it on McCoy's shoulder. "You feel so _good_," Jim whined, hips moving smoothly against McCoy's ass as he pushed a little harder, grinding against him.

"Jim," McCoy murmured thickly, _Jeeyim_, but he managed to slit his eyes open, his front conspicuously chilled with Spock's absence. He was still there, kneeling at the side of the bed, watching them with dark, gleaming eyes and what the hell was that about, McCoy didn't have a chance to ask, Spock just watched Jim going a little crazy all over him, babbling out filthy-hot fragments of words about heat and fuck and good, dissolving into one long groan as Jim came against the curve of his ass, sliding easily in the glossy wetness of his own come.

It felt...fuck, Jim was right about one thing, it felt _good_, and his own groan was conspicuously close to a whimper, jerking himself off with Jim's hand, not quite tight enough and he needed, he--

Another hand closed over his own, tightened his grip until McCoy yelped aloud, hips jerking raggedly as the three of them brought him off, came to the feel of Jim mouthing his ear, teeth worrying the soft lobe his ear and Spock's hand over his own, strong and cool and McCoy dimly wondered what Spock was feeling from him, just now, if he was feeling McCoy's orgasm like some kind of vicarious telepathic pornography, if it felt _good_.

He found himself kinda hoping it did.

Later, he figured he must've blacked out, a little, still a bit boozy and sex-sleepy, he was old, dammit, he was goddamned exhausted, and he would have been perfectly content to sleep in the wet spot, bury his face into the rather fragrant blankets and bask in it till Beta shift.

The feel of a damp, warm cloth stroking over his belly, cleaning him, woke him a little and McCoy opened his eyes to find Spock cleaning him briskly. Of course he would.

"Doctor," Spock began, correcting himself before McCoy could protest, "Leonard. Jim and I are on Alpha shift--"

"Yeah, I know," McCoy broke in. The last goddamned thing he wanted to hear right now was the Vulcan version of the morning after speech. Instead, he rolled over to bury his face in the pillows. "Go on, get out of here."

Only he didn't hear anyone obeying, neither Spock nor Jim being much of the taking orders kind. Goddamn it all, anyway. His hypo from earlier was working entirely too well and he wasn't drunk enough, sure as hell wasn't hung-over enough to deal with this right now, on the ass end of no sleep on the day after his birthday. Take a hint, he pleaded mentally, get the hell out of here, and for maybe the first time in his life, whatever Gods were in the heavens seemed to be listening. He heard footsteps start towards to door, hesitate, then keep on going.

"Bones?"

Fuck. How much of that goddamned brandy was left, anyway?

But Jim didn't continue, didn't touch him again and McCoy started to relax, drifted into that almost-asleep place before he heard Jim say, softly, "Happy birthday."

Again, footsteps, his best friend walking away from him and there was the soft sound of a door closing. McCoy lay in his bed, eyes open and breathing in the stink of their sex for a long time before he finally moved, snagged a pair of wrinkled pants from the floor and tugged them over his hips. The bottle was sitting on the low table in front of his sofa, still, the gleaming liquid amber nearly a quarter of the way from the bottom.

McCoy didn't bother to find his glass. Just settled in his chair and started drinking.

-finis-


	3. Any Other Day

Any Other Day  
by Keelywolfe

Summary: We saw the night of in And Years Went By, and we saw the morning after in Wished Me Well. Now it's the day after and for better or worse, McCoy is stone cold sober.

* * *

People joined Starfleet for a bunch of different reasons. Some of them were even truly altruistic, wanting to be there when the galaxy needed saving, wanting to be part of the peace keeping process. Then there were the scientists who knew they'd never have a better opportunity to study the unknown world, getting firsthand experience rather than staying in the sterile security of the lab.

Some people wanted adventure, bright-eyed kids who believed the goddamned recruitment posters and enlisted, came out a few years later in their shiny uniforms and spent the rest of their time trying not to get their asses killed on an uncharted planet light years from home.

What none of those people realized until it was too late was one important little fact. Between those adventures, peacekeeping missions and scientific explorations alike, shuttling through the deep blackness of space was really fucking boring. Boring enough for chess tournaments and singing engagements to be enough to get the whole ship into an uproar.

There were only two exceptions to the rule of boring: engineering and that was only because Scotty could never leave damn well enough alone, was always trying to squeeze just a little more out of his beloved engines. The other exception was Medical Bay.

Even the best medical tricorder couldn't pick up every possible illness, particularly an undocumented one, and it certainly couldn't pick up the case of sniffles that one Ensign didn't report because he didn't think it mattered much. No matter how often McCoy railed and cajoled everyone on the damned ship to come to sickbay if they felt even the tiniest bit under the weather, if they had a lingering headache, the slightest itchiness to the eyes, they never did it. Those sniffles would turn into a shipwide, festering plague because some idiot opened a box they got on some godforsaken planet and it let loose a century old rhizome to infect them. Two weeks of space travel to incubate and in the boring expanse of space, McCoy had a sickbay loaded with moaning people who needed a full range of the treatment that he'd just had to _invent_with the feverish speed of necessity.

Yeah, running Medical on the Enterprise was anything but boring and McCoy usually liked it that way. Not that he liked seeing people suffering, hell, no, but he loved being a doctor, loved helping people with his own particular brand of brilliance. He couldn't negotiate a trade treaty worth a damn and he'd be vomiting in his own lap before he'd be able to pilot the ship into a black hole, but stagger into his Sickbay with misery in your eyes, and Doctor McCoy would damn sure get you back on your feet.

Usually, he liked it that way.

Today, with a lingering ache hovering behind his eyes that was equal parts alcohol and lack of sleep, he only hoped that any epidemics would kindly wait until tomorrow. If the cobbler's children always went barefoot, then a ship's doctor never got a sick day.

Luck was with him, for once. Only one patient and he had a simple rhinovirus, nothing that required the personal attention of the Chief Medical Officer. Nurse Chapel was checking on the patient, an Ensign by his uniform, but she looked up when McCoy came in, her expression composing itself into warm sympathy that he ignored.

Not that there was anything for her to be sympathetic about, nothing visible, anyway. McCoy's uniform was neat as a pin, like always, and a couple of well-timed hypospray injections guaranteed that he didn't look any different than his normal, surly self. Chapel, though, wasn't one who was easy to fool.

It wasn't like he didn't _know_that she knew it had been his birthday yesterday but Chapel was also damned good nurse, had that almost mystical quality of knowing just what the doctor needed. And what McCoy needed right now was to be left the hell alone.

With barely a glance of acknowledgment, McCoy went into his office and the second the door slid shut behind him, he gave up the pretense. Almost staggered around his desk and slumped into his chair so's he could close his dry, aching eyes.

Just sitting down gave him a firm reminder of what he'd been up to the night before and with who. Whom. Whatever the hell it was, grammar was beyond him right now. Even a judicious application of 21st century medicine hadn't healed up all his aches and pains, and it was damned hard to ignore just how he'd gotten all those finger-shaped bruises when he'd had to stare at them to fix 'em.

Christ, today was going to be very long.

He'd deliberately scheduled himself on the Beta shift to get a chance to recover from his birthday evening. Time and experience had taught him that lesson. What he hadn't taken into account was an extra bout of drinking the next morning, nor had he figured in the enthusiasm of the average Vulcan in his calculations. Or that of his Captain. Those were equations he'd never, ever guessed he'd have to include when planning out his daily schedule.

McCoy sighed heavily, reached up to rub the aching place between his eyes. He might not have needed to calculate odds on Jim before but chances were he'd need to be doing some fancy mathematics to sort things out now. Five years of friendship with Jim meant he knew the kid pretty damn well and he knew Jim wasn't going to let this go. It was too much to hope that Jim would let this sleeping dog lie. No, the kid was going to poke that mean ol' mutt with a stick until it jumped up and bit them both and McCoy had no idea what would happen after that. Whether the very friendship he'd treasured and been trying to protect from one pointy-eared bastard was going to be wrecked by a birthday tradition gone awry.

Yep, Jim was going to want to talk and sooner or later he'd get McCoy cornered. It was only a matter of time.

For today, it was better to push it aside, he decided. Not easily done but McCoy had done a fair bit of repression over the years and he could set this aside for the moment, take it back out to puzzle over when he was feeling a little less like the underside of a whorehouse rug.

One of the downsides of being Chief Medical Officer was the endless reports that had to be sent, tersely worded missives that gave a skeletal outline of the goings on of the ship's various catastrophes. Pretty damned pointless McCoy would say if he were asked; there was no good way to explain the feel of dying man's blood squelching warmly between your fingers or the helpless frustration a doctor felt as he tried to come up with a miracle cure with his crew, his family, collapsing around him.

No report could ever express the truth of it and even the papers he often wrote for medical journals couldn't articulate what really happened but somehow, the reports were worse. Either the higher ups only focused on what they perceived as mistakes or they ignored them entirely which made them not only a pain in the ass but completely useless as far as McCoy was concerned.

That didn't mean he could get out of doing the damned things though and today seemed like a perfect day to get the ones that had been piling up out of his inbox and on their way to Starfleet Medical Command so he could get either his appropriate chewing out or be completely disregarded.

A few hours later and most of his headache was finally gone, chased away by equal parts of strong coffee and stronger self-medicating. Chapel had only been in a couple of times, checking up on him in her own quiet way. Suspecting, he was sure, that the doctor was plenty hung over from the night before. It was a damned good thing she couldn't possibly suspect anything more than that, could have no idea why McCoy shifted uncomfortably in his chair from time to time.

The clock was moving forward swiftly and Beta shift was over by the time McCoy really looked up from his work. Gamma shift was just moving into full swing and he'd just started to stretch, thinking fond thoughts towards food for the first time that day when his door opened again with a quiet hiss.

He looked up, expecting the duty nurse to be standing there with a disapproving look, ready to shuffle him out of Sickbay for the night. That was what he'd been expecting and annoyed words were already forming on his lips to tell her, in appropriate terms, to piss off, he was almost done.

Those words died away, unspoken, because what he was expecting was a duty nurse but what he got was an expressionless Vulcan standing at his door, waiting with his hands clasped behind his back.

Looked like he might be getting cornered sooner than he'd expected.

"Doctor," Spock said, nodding slightly. "You have finished your report on the Tensudu 4 incident. I wished to discuss it with you before you sent it to command."

That faint, prickly fear that had been crawling its way up McCoy's spine eased back down and he gave himself a mental shake. Stupid of him, to think that Spock wanted to chat him up about the night before. About fucking him the night before. They went over reports together a couple of times a week and he'd completely forgotten that today was likely to be just such an occasion.

"Yeah, I have it," McCoy said, tiredly. Normally, he'd bristle the second Spock walked in the door, equal parts piss and vinegar, and ready to deal with whatever logical bullshit Spock felt like throwing his way. Hell, he'd be the first to admit he enjoyed their little spats but today...just...not today.

Spock nodded again and stepped into his office, the door closing behind him as he seated himself opposite to McCoy.

McCoy pulled up his report on his screen and sent it to Spock's padd. The Tensudu 4 incident. Pretty straightforward, all things considered, standard allergic reaction to plant life that caused blistering and swelling in Humans and various other species including Vulcans, similar to that of the genus Toxicodendron.

"Not much to talk about with this one, treatment is just about the same as any plant-induced contact dermatitis. Clean the area well, treat with..."

"You are apprehensive about the events of last night."

"... and...corticosteroids..." McCoy trailed off, staring at Spock who was watching him with the same bland expression as he did everything. Well, wasn't that just wonderful. He'd been cornered for this topic of conversation by the goddamned Vulcan and he hadn't even had a chance to prep his speech.

Given the choice between having this chat with Spock and fleeing for the hills, McCoy figured that taking the coward's way out was the way to go for today.

"Not sure if this is an appropriate topic of conversation while we're on duty," McCoy said, stiffly. If there was one good way to yank Spock away from this wreck waiting to happen, it was a reminder of his responsibilities.

Just his luck that Spock wasn't biting today. "I am not currently on duty and your shift ended approximately forty-five minutes ago."

True enough. McCoy sighed and rubbed at his temples before he gave in to the urge to pull open the bottom drawer of his desk and take out a dark bottle with no label, along with a couple of glasses. Medicine of the gods and the way today was heading, another hangover was the least of his worries.

Spock raised one eyebrow as he poured out a fingers worth of cheap whiskey into each glass. If ever there was an occasion for rotgut, this had to be it, but something about Spock's look made him uncomfortable, not exactly accusing, but still-- "I never drink when I'm on duty," he snapped, holding the glass in two hands though he didn't drink it, yet.

"I did not say otherwise," Spock replied, smoothly. "As I said, your shift is over. However, as I do not imbibe..." he nodded pointedly at the other glass.

"Assumed Jim would be joining us for this little chat," McCoy said, relaxing enough to toss back his drink, grimacing as it burned its way down. Not much could compare to a good Saurian brandy but to even try with this would be a grave insult to all liquor.

"The captain is otherwise occupied."

"So he sent you down here to talk to me?" McCoy asked, disbelievingly. He wondered if there was a chance that the whiskey had gone over.

"As you say."

"Then he needs another goddamned physical because he is out of his damned mind," McCoy snapped, snatching up the other glass and tossing back that one, too. He didn't want to have this conversation at all and he'd be damned if he was going to have it sober.

"I came here out of my own volition," Spock said. There was the barest edge of sharpness to his tone and once, it would have given McCoy as smug sense of satisfaction to hear it. Whatever emotion it was inspiring in him now, _smug_ was not the word to describe it. "To speak with you. And I think you have had enough of the hair in the dog, I believe is the colloquialism."

"Hair _of_the dog," McCoy corrected, almost absently. "Comes from medieval medical practices. So now that the linguistics lesson is out of the way, quit trying to bullshit me and just say what you have to say."

McCoy crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back in his chair and considered enjoying the sight of Spock floundering in front of him. Spock was so rarely caught out that McCoy could only wish it had happened during better circumstances, the better to savor his discomfort.

Far too soon, Spock collected himself. "You know that Jim and I--"

"That you're fucking?" McCoy drawled, "Yeah. I knew that much."

Spock's lips thinned ever so slightly, the barest visual evidence of annoyance. "Yes. Previous to that, I had already assumed that you and Jim were engaged in a sexual relationship, therefore, I was unsurprised when he spoke to me of it."

"One blowjob a year ain't exactly a relationship."

"Yet it is sexual."

"Can't argue that," McCoy sighed. "Is there a point to this? Because if you'd like to get to it, I'd surely appreciate it."

For a long moment, Spock only stared at him mutely, thin-lipped and his face tight, those eyes that weren't, quite, Vulcan glaring at him, and McCoy stared back innocently, pure and sweet as vanilla ice cream.

Abruptly, Spock stood, "Very well."

It seemed like he'd finally managed to chase Spock off, he thought for one dizzying second, batting away equal parts of relief and regret that settled right into his gut along with two shots of cheap whiskey for just long enough for Spock to stalk around the desk and yank him from his chair, his own honest shock buried beneath the hot pressure of a Vulcan mouth.

"Wait," he tried to say, failed, couldn't speak around the extra tongue in his mouth. He couldn't taste anything with his booze-deadened taste buds, but he could feel, feel Spock kissing him almost viciously as he pushed McCoy back on the desk, hear the dim clatter of padds and the thump of a glass falling to the floor around them.

Christ, yes. It would be so easy to give into this, to let that hot mouth and, fuck, hands that were already pushing up his uniform shirt, sliding hotly over his chest, down his sides, just touching him everywhere. Shoving his shirt over his head and Spock had to break their kiss to tug it off and that was enough to allow words to finally spill out, not words that McCoy wanted to speak and yet...

"I can't do this," he groaned. "I can't."

Spock's mouth was back on him, hot, _hot_, as he sucked a line up McCoy's jaw to his ear. "You already have. Twice."

Christ, he had, but this was different, this was...he wasn't drunk, he wasn't hung over, it wasn't his birthday, and Jim wasn't...it was Jim he'd been expecting, Jim he'd been waiting...had he been waiting? Still here in his office past shift, still here and Spock...

"I wasn't expecting this from you," McCoy managed. He couldn't, quite, make himself push Spock away. "Want to explain to me how the fuck this is logical?"

Another bruising kiss, hard teeth clicking against his own and McCoy pushed up into it, a little helplessly.

"No, I do not," Spock said, breathed it, God, into McCoy's mouth. He had both of McCoy's hands in his own, twining their fingers together over and over in that bizarre, erotic way he had the night before. McCoy had a doctor's hands, more sensitive, maybe, because a little hand rub shouldn't be getting him as hard as it was. It took a moment for him to notice Spock was still talking, murmuring in between kisses.

"Sex in and of itself is not illogical. It is pleasurable as well as an excellent reliever of stress and a good form of physical exercise."

McCoy blinked up at him, incredulous. "You're saying you want to fuck me because it's good exercise?

"Of course not," Surprisingly patient, what with Spock kissing like McCoy was something to be devoured. "I am attracted to you."

There was some reply he should have made to that, something sarcastic and cutting but it wasn't possible to sputter out a single word because Spock chose that moment to push one hand into McCoy's trousers, tearing off the button on his fly almost casually and the soft ping of it hitting the floor was as distant as Earth, a hot Vulcan mouth and cool Vulcan hands touching him ceaselessly. The only sound McCoy could make was embarrassingly close to a sob as he arched up, only his shoulders still on the desk as he pushed into the tight clench of Spock's fist.

He barely even registered that Spock had stripped off his trousers, naked on his own desk with Spock still fully clothed on top of him and it might have pissed him off, flustered him , goddamned Vulcans, if Spock hadn't been so obviously tousled, his hair wrecked and his mouth swollen. Pretty, fucking _pretty_, like Jim was pretty, yeah, and he wanted that hot mouth around his cock again. He could admit to that, he _wanted_ it, wanted it all.

Wanted it enough that he needed no encouragement to draw his legs up this time, canting his hips up in an invitation that any inbred fool could understand, much less a brilliant science officer.

Spock's eyes went a little wide but it wasn't like his clothes could hide his interest. He was hard enough that his cock was pushing firmly into McCoy's belly, searching for any port in a storm, McCoy figured.

"Come on," McCoy groaned, "C'mon, in my desk, there's lube." Shame there was nothing sexual at all to do with it, it was just standard medical grade lubricant, along with any other number of other things in his desk; he could start his own medical gift shop with the contents in the drawers.

Spock was already fumbling with the drawer, searching, even as his mouth formed faint protests, "I hurt you, that first time."

"No," McCoy shook his head, a little wildly. "No, it was fine, it was _great_."

"I did. I will endeavor not to repeat that error. You are unlike Jim in this respect."

Just the implication of those words sent a sharp, unexpected thrum of lust right into his gut. Thinking of Jim like this, sprawled out naked on his desk, beneath Spock, or maybe even beneath--

"What's fucking Jim like?" he demanded, "Tell me!"

McCoy yelped aloud as Spock pressed a slickened finger into him, still faintly sore from the night before. One finger quickly became two, little more than a cursory preparation despite Spock's promise.

"You are tighter than Jim," Spock murmured, licking almost frantically at McCoy's ear, twisting his fingers deeper inside.

McCoy shook his head desperately; that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "No...Jim..."

"Jim is _not here_," Spock said, sharply, and McCoy hissed as he withdrew his fingers abruptly. "I want _you_."

"Ah!" McCoy couldn't help his startled cry, Spock pushing his legs up and apart, already pressing his cock into him. He'd barely done more than open his trousers, all McCoy could feel beneath his hands was uniform, even as he scrabbled more desperately, searching for bare skin. A strong hand caught his own firmly, pulled it up so that Spock could press a kiss into his palm.

"I have you," Spock whispered as he slid deeply inside, rocking into him with surprising gentleness, "I have you...I..."

It did burn, a little, but not so much as the night before. McCoy hooked his ankles into the small of Spock's back, hauled him in, hard. He was sore and it had hurt the night before but what Spock didn't seem to understand was how little McCoy cared. He wanted Spock to fuck bruises into him, wanted it hard and deep and fierce. And maybe Spock picked up on that, that prized Vulcan telepathy finally good for something useful because he shifted his grip to McCoy's hips, and thrust in hard, ruthlessly quick and it was _perfect._

"Yeah, come on, that's good, you feel so good," McCoy babbled out, words escaping him like a spring flood, words washing out between them until McCoy was barely aware of what he was even saying, only knew that he didn't want Spock to stop. Close, he was so close, squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation.

A strong hand gripping his chin startled him into looking up, Spock's face bare inches from his own as he glared.

"Say my name," Spock demanded, his eyes wild, hair clinging damply to his face and when McCoy only stared at him dumbly he shifted his grip considerably lower, squeezing McCoy's cock hard enough that he yelped, fingers circling the base effectively preventing him from tipping over the edge.

It was a cruel balance between Spock's hard, ceaseless thrusts inside him and his hand gripping him, Spock still glaring down at him, teeth slightly bared in a grimace.

"…Spock," McCoy mumbled, hardly audible but he saw Spock's nostrils flare in response, a sharp breath sucked in between grit teeth. It made him want say it again, and he did, louder, "Spock."

Again, and now Spock's hand wasn't punishing so much as it was stroking him, and McCoy began to improvise, words interspersed with moans and whimpers, "Spock, yeah, harder, Christ, yeah, Spock, you feel so good, fuck me _hard_, yeah, yeah…"

An endless stream of words flowing out of him, all interspersed with his name, Spock, yes, Spock, _Spock_, until they stuttered off, lost in his loud groan as he arched up a last time and came in a wet spatter of warmth over Spock's hand and between them. McCoy collapsed back on his desk, panting for breath, still clinging limply to Spock and it gave him a perfect chance to watch, watch those eyes close as Spock gave in to his own climax, pretty even like this, his expression frozen for the briefest moment of time before he sagged down onto McCoy.

They lay there for a long moment, until McCoy shifted uncomfortably. For being so scrawny, Spock was surprisingly heavy and McCoy sucked in a deep breath of relief as Spock shifted up to rest on his elbows. He wasn't quite as relieved when Spock finally withdrew from him, biting off a groan as his body vehemently protested the second invasion in as many days.

"It's fine," McCoy said sharply before Spock could apologize again, his eyes dark with concern. He was a fucking doctor, goddamnit, he'd know if he was really hurt.

They dressed in silence, Spock doing little more than fastening his pants and straightening his hair while McCoy had to search for every piece of his clothes. They finally found his last sock beneath the desk and he sat down to pull it on, every bit of him too exhausted to stand any more.

Spock took back his own seat, again looking as neat and serene as ever. It made McCoy want to ruffle his hair, to give some proof of what had just happened.

"Leonard—" Spock began, but McCoy broke in. He had something to say about this, damn it, and Spock was going to listen to him for a change.

"I can't do this," McCoy said bluntly, let every ounce of his weariness into his voice. "I can't just be in some casual affair with you two. My birthday was one thing but this…" he shook his head, tiredly. "I just can't."

Spock tilted his head slightly, studying him, "Pardon my confusion, Doctor, but I was unaware that we had asked such a thing of you."

Oh, that hurt. More than he had expected, even more perhaps because it_hadn't_ been expected. He'd been prepared for the argument, been ready to push them aside, been ready to _let this be_, only to find that there was nothing to argue about. Everything he'd been about to deny, they hadn't wanted from him to begin with.

Any other day, he would have blustered away his pain and anger, pushed it aside with a few choice, bitter words but instead McCoy found he couldn't say a word. Not this time.

Spock seemed to take his silence as a chance to continue, because he as he stood, he added, "Being fully aware of the arguments you would have against it, the captain and I decided that we would forgo asking your opinion on the issue. If you wish to sleep in your own quarters tonight, that would be understandable but your presence at Jim's would not be unwelcome."

McCoy barely heard him, murmured some appropriate response as Spock nodded to him before he turned and left, the swish of the closing doors behind him terribly final.

Well. It seemed he wouldn't have to worry about a conversation with Jim at all, since it didn't seem much like he was interested in having one. Wasn't that just a weight off his mind.

The bottle of whiskey was still sitting on the corner of his desk, somehow escaping the carnage of the rest of it. Neither of the glasses had survived, both lying in damp pieces on his floor and McCoy looked at the bottle for a long time, breathing in the smell of sex, his sex, his and Spock's. Slowly, he reached for it, picked it up, watched the cheap liquor glimmer with amber light. With a harsh, deliberate flick of his wrist, he flung it against the wall and watched it shatter, and explosion of glass and tawny liquid that ran down his wall in streams.

McCoy watched it drip down, pooling on the floor before he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the door, not really caring much about how he might look.

Beta shift was over and it was time to go.

-finis-


	4. Time Is A River

Time Is A River  
by Keelywolfe

Summary: Time is rolling on and all McCoy wants now is a little sleep. Yeah, good luck with that.

* * *

There were few things that Leonard McCoy considered the more tempting indulgences of life. A ripe peach pulled fresh from the tree, so juicy that when a fellow bit into it, juice would spill from it and lead a trail all the way down to his elbow. The sound of his daughter's laughter when he spun her around in his arms, flyin' me, she'd called it and for all her father's aviophobia, she had shown no such fear. All in all, comforts that were in short supply on a Federation Starship.

Lacking that, and the fact that he was far too good a doctor to indulge in liquor as often as he'd like, McCoy sometimes let himself overindulge in one of the more acceptable simple luxuries. Sleep.

Far as he was concerned, napping was one of the great overlooked hobbies; there was just something about spending twelve hours of sweet rest between the sheets after a grueling forty-eight hour epidemic that was a balm to his soul. Not that he got to indulge often; being a doctor, particularly on this damned ship, frequently meant he was dashing from his quarters to Sickbay with his hair sticking up in the back and his pants barely fastened. Truth be told, even on Earth it had been the same way; oddly enough, patients usually didn't wait till a convenient hour to break their arm.

Tonight, though, he sent a fond wish in the direction of whatever Gods listened to overtired doctors who'd had a couple of shit days, that there would be no emergency calls tonight, no discovering some unknown pestilence lurking onboard, no explosions or plasma burns. Just peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Only now that he was here in his freshly changed sheets that smelled only of clean, he couldn't turn off his thoughts enough to fall asleep. Behind his closed eyes all he could see was Spock's face, tight with more emotion than he'd believed possible and Jim—

Jim.

Maudlin, whiny old man, he chided himself tiredly. He'd spent the past two days getting fucked to oblivion and back and now he was here mentally bitching about it? The way his luck ran, he should be grateful he hadn't broken out in some obscure venereal disease. As one of the few people with full access to Jim Kirk's medical record, he had to admit that he wouldn't mind dosing himself with a broad-spectrum antibiotic.

_It would still be worth it,_ his brain offered slyly, and gave him a mental repeat of Jim from the night before, from just this morning…pretty, trails of sweat sliding from his temples and those impossibly blue eyes closed for once, soft lips parted, Christ Almighty.

McCoy swore aloud and rolled over again, punching a fist into his pillow as he slumped back into his blankets. It was annoying enough to have Spock and Jim occupying his days, he really didn't need them taking up his nights, too...oh, for pity's sake, not like that!

He groaned again, slung an arm over his eyes. Might just be a long night, after all. He really was too old for this shit.

It was sheer determination that got him just to the borders of sleep only to jerk back awake at the faint sound of a door opening. That was enough to make McCoy shift up on his elbow, blinking blearily through the dimness because there were very few people who could override the lock on his door, and the two likeliest candidates were the last ones he really wanted to see. Soft footsteps came closer and McCoy caught his breath, bit the tip of his tongue against the urge to yell at them to get the hell out. Too late for that, old man, far too late.

The light in the living area flickered on, casting the person standing in his bedroom door in shadows but it didn't matter. He knew that silhouette the same way he knew the grin that so often came with it, the dark eyes and the bright arrogance.

Jim didn't turn on the light, only stepped in closer, letting the light he'd been blocking illuminate the room.

"I knew you'd be here," Jim said quietly.

"Where else would I be but tits up during the Gamma shift?" McCoy mumbled. It would be tempting, so very tempting, to roll over, to pull the blankets over his head and just ignore all this. Fall asleep and hope for a better tomorrow.

But it was Jim in standing in front of him. Stripped out of his gold Captain's shirt and just wearing the black undershirt with those tight pants, just the same way he almost always was when they were here in McCoy's quarters and it didn't matter if they were talking or drinking or whose damned birthday it was or had been. Spock he'd be able to ignore or insult, do just about anything to get him to piss off. This was Jim, his best friend, and he'd never been able to ignore Jim, hadn't been able to leave him standing pathetic and alone in a docking bay much less turn away from him now.

Jim, who was standing in the middle of his bedroom, arms crossed over his chest. Still too shadowed to see his face clearly but McCoy certainly recognized his 'determined' stance and groaned mentally, kissing his sweet thoughts of sleeping in goodbye.

"I know that you think I just rush into things, banners blazing and fuck all to thinking things through--" Jim began.

"Your medical records support me on that," McCoy lifted his head enough to interrupt before slumping back into the pillows.

"Be that as it may," Jim continued doggedly, goddamned determined Starfleet captains, anyway. He drifted towards the small collection of photos that graced the single shelf in the room, a few of Joanna, a couple of him and Jim at the academy. He picked one up, fuck if McCoy knew which one, studied in for a long moment before setting it back down. "I did think about this whole thing."

"Jim, do we really have to have this conversation?" Far as McCoy was concerned, he'd had quite enough of chatting around this subject.

"I have had nothing but this conversation for weeks!" Jim spun around, "You don't know how horrible this conversation is until you've had it with a Vulcan so shut up and listen because I am not leaving until you've heard your share of it."

McCoy sighed and then nodded enough that Jim could see it.

"Like I was saying, Spock and I have been discussing this for freaking ever."

Okay, that was enough. McCoy made a great sacrifice to the sleeping-in cause and finally sat up, the better to glare at his captain, his best friend, and the pain in his ass. Although not literally, that honor was still with the damned Vulcan.

"Discussing what?" McCoy demanded, "Discussing my birthday? Discussing fucking with me? Why the hell were you discussing me at all?"

Jim was unfazed by his outburst, only rolled his eyes and snagged a chair from against the wall, dragging it up to the bed so he could straddle it, and really, McCoy should not be in the frame of mind to notice exactly how well that position put Jim's better parts on display. Five years of not noticing the sex in everything damned thing Jim did had been destroyed in one night. "That's what Vulcans _do_, they discuss things. They talk about it and dissect it, and determine all the scenarios and all the likely outcomes and pretty much everything but actually _do_ it."

McCoy snorted aloud. "Spock didn't seem all that shy about _doing_anything—"

"Bones, would you shut up for five minutes?" Jim exclaimed, exasperated. "You're just as bad! He goes on and on about equations and varying results, and you just want to bitch and moan until I give up. But I'm not going to, not this time. I know you, you know."

"Jim—"

"I know you, okay? You think I don't know you? I know everything_about_ you, I knew how you'd react to all this." He waved a hand in the general area of the air around them. "Just like I knew how you'd react before. Do you really think I kept it all wrapped up nicely as a birthday present because I didn't want to get into your pants the other 364 days out of the year?"

"Jim," McCoy whispered again, aware of the molasses-thick panic rising in his throat. Jim ignored him, just on the edge of full-on rant mode and there wasn't much to do after that than let him go on.

"I know you, damn it. I know you don't do casual anymore than you do permanent and I would have been perfectly happy to let it be like it was because you could accept that. Only Spock—"

Jim trailed off, rubbing his hands over his face. When he finally looked at McCoy again, his eyes were as tired as McCoy felt, weariness that he felt all the way down to his bones. "I know you," Jim repeated again, softly. "I really do. So let me tell you something, this? Whatever the fuck it is, it isn't casual. And it doesn't have to be permanent. So if you would occasionally like me to suck your dick or fuck you or whatever you want when we both aren't epically drunk, let me know about it."

"Okay." A little feebly, a little stunned, because what else could he _say_?

Jim paused. "Okay?"

This was a mistake, McCoy knew, a certain grim knowledge settling into his gut. As much as Jim swore he knew him, McCoy knew him right back. He _knew_ Jim and he knew that getting used to this would be just another mistake in the long line he'd had over the past years. He was a hell of a doctor but he couldn't pilot worth a damn, not ships and sure as hell not relationships. Lord knew every one he'd had had turned sour as left out milk in July, curdling until they could barely stand to look at him, much less speak to him.

That couldn't happen with Jim, he told himself fiercely. He really didn't think he could stand it. He'd packed up his troubles last time without even the benefit of a kit-bag and swallowed down his fears to go into space, right to the end of the line, and now he was out of places to go.

So he'd go along with it. If Jim really wanted to get his hands on McCoy's dick that badly, well, he'd oblige, he'd even let Spock come along for the ride, and when Jim finally got tired of it, he'd handle that, too. He'd have to because he wasn't losing his best friend over it.

Only, if he'd had a choice about it, he'd have happily gone along with it_tomorrow_, when he wasn't nursing a leftover hangover and two nights worth of sleep deprivation. But it seemed that he'd surrender his choices when he'd given Jim an open invitation into his pajamas and Jim seemed eager to take him up on the invite right now, already reaching out and sliding a tentative hand beneath the blankets. McCoy muffled a groan into his pillow as Jim's hand dipped lower, finding the hem of his shirt and toying with it.

"Jim," McCoy sighed, "God as my witness, I am exhausted. I'm numb from the waist down, I swear. I couldn't get it up right now if they were handing out blowjobs with a free lollipop."

"That's fine." The teasing hand withdrew and McCoy didn't even have a chance to be relieved when the bed shifted as Jim crawled into it, curling up behind him like the largest spoon in the drawer. Warm, so warm, his breath soft and damp on the back of McCoy's neck.

To be honest, this wasn't all that strange. He'd slept in the same bed as Jim before, both of them fully dressed and too exhausted to care about something as petty as personal space. True, Jim had never slid a hand under his shirt to pet the soft hairs on his belly first, never snugged his cock against McCoy's ass and sighed little sounds of appreciation into his ear.

He wouldn't have believed anything could have stirred him tonight, not with exhaustion threading its ties through him, but apparently his dick hadn't gotten the message. It was already perking up, thickening and swelling under Jim's gentle ministrations and when Jim gave him a little nudge, pushed him to lie on his back, McCoy went without a protest.

It was entirely too easy to lay here, to let Jim slide his pajama pants off, even as he made a mental note as to where Jim tossed them. Doctors did not sleep naked, no, they did not. Not unless they wanted to end up bare-ass in surgery, they didn't.

Christ, the kid had a pair of hands on him. Knew just how to touch, just where, and the feeling of his thumb making a slippery circle around the slick head of his cock was enough to draw a choked moan out of McCoy, arching up a little helplessly.

He felt Jim moving, the whispery sound of clothes being pulled off and he forced his eyes open, slit against the too-bright light coming in from the doorway, but he could still see. He'd seen Jim naked before, course he had, probably a dozen times. Tricorders were all good and well but a doctor had to be able to see a wound to treat it and Jim wasn't exactly shy.

A fellow who wasn't a doctor might not understand but seeing a patient was different; no matter what they looked like, they were still a patient and nothing about seeing Jim naked with pain hazing his eyes was sexy in the least.

This, now, a lapful of squirming, naked Jim who was stroking him like he couldn't seem to stop, leaning in close to brush his mouth against McCoy's and he opened to the slick touch of his tongue without hesitation. Jim had both hands on his face now, holding him still as though he was afraid McCoy would pull away. As if he could. As if he could do anything now but suck on that soft tongue, nip at the tip and feel Jim shudder against him.

Jim pulled back abruptly, shuffled backwards awkwardly, almost gracelessly and it was odd to see, Jim always so easy in his body.

"I want you," Jim said, too loud and sharp and McCoy was nodding stupidly, already reaching for Jim's hips. He wanted it, too, exchanging exhaustion for desire. Hissed as Jim reached back and held his cock steady, shifted back to take him in.

"Fuck me," McCoy moaned aloud, weakly. Jim was already slick inside, fucking bastard had been ready for this, course he had been, slick and hot, tight as a clenched fist around him.

"No, that wasn't me," Jim muttered, his tone dark. It was enough to make McCoy drag his eyes open again, blinking at Jim blearily. "Spock has fucked you twice now and here I am, gathering up the leftovers again."

"No--" McCoy started, cut off with a strangled yelp as Jim clenched tight around him. He had one hand resting lightly on McCoy's belly for balance, the other jerking himself off and that would have been worth watching on its own because if there was one thing Jim had always been, it was beautiful. Even from that first meeting, his face still raw and bruised, McCoy had seen it and now, writhing on him, framed in the yellowish light from the doorway, he looked like every dirty fantasy McCoy had ever had.

It was all McCoy could do to keep hanging on, eyes taking in every wanton twist, every unabashed rocking of his hips. His hands felt too large and sweat-slick on Jim's hips but he held on tight, tried to meet each backwards thrust with one of his own.

Jim was gasping now, biting his lip hard before he tipped his head back, God, pretty, so fucking pretty..."You never offered," Jim managed, his voice breaking with breathy little moans. "On my birthdays."

"Sorry," McCoy panted and damned if he didn't mean it, from the bottom of his soul. If he'd known that Jim had been waiting for this, well, there wasn't much that would have stopped him from getting it, fucking Hobgoblins aside. Birthdays, holidays, whatever, he would have filled his calendar with celebrations if he'd known this was waiting for him in the end.

Jim didn't seem as willing to let it go, muttering under his breath even as he jerked himself harder, thighs tight as he lifted up and dropped down hard, _hard_. "Always got me some stupid present--"

"I'm sorry!" If he'd had a little more presence of mind, McCoy would surely have been embarrassed by that little wail, and even more so by the sound he made after it, desperate and longing, high enough that his voice cracked but since he was coming at the time, he didn't care quite as much. It was hard to care about anything when his orgasm was blinding him, certainly didn't care that he was gripping Jim's hips hard enough to bruise just so's he could hold him there, hold him tight as he arched up hard one last time and spilled into the tight clench of Jim's body. Barely, he felt Jim coming, too, felt the hot, wet spill of it across his belly and all it did was make his cock jerk again, just the feeling of it like an extra helping of bliss.

The next thing he knew clearly was that Jim was sprawled on top of him, heavy and sweaty-warm, and Jim was no goddamned lightweight. Sex was all fine and good but McCoy was starting to notice a trend in his getting squashed afterward. Bruises weren't as much fun in the aftermath.

It didn't take Jim too long to roll off of him, curling up against him in the swampy dampness of the bed. It'd been some time since McCoy had fallen asleep in the messy after-sex sheets and suddenly the idea had more appeal than he would have thought. Certainly more than actually getting up to change the bed.

Jim was nuzzling lazy kisses against his throat and jaw and McCoy was nearly asleep when Jim finally spoke to him again, so softly.

"Can I stay?"

Had to be a dozen ways to answer that, and at least half of them began with the word Spock, but in the end, McCoy was just too damned tired to argue about it now, settled for the simplest answer.

"Yeah," he mumbled, felt the tension slide out of Jim as though drawn with an old-fashion syringe. Even gathering up his pajamas seemed like too much work and if he ended up bare ass in Sickbay, well, he'd paid the price for it in advance. Just now, he'd call it worth it.

Jim was already asleep, he realized, a little bemused. Snoring faintly and drooling in a spreading patch over the pillow. McCoy found he didn't really mind. Closed his eyes and let all of it wash over him, a little guilty indulgence in a luxury that was the furthest thing from simple. Jim might not be sweet, but he was still fresh as a ripe peach for the plucking and McCoy decided, as he drifted off to sleep, he might as well enjoy it while he could.

Seasons changed quickly, even in the darkness of space.

-finis-


	5. An Appropriate Response to Reality

An Appropriate Response to Reality  
By Keelywolfe

Summary: It's the morning after. Again.

* * *

No matter how many times he patiently explained that he was just a doctor, damn it, it never seemed to help much. He was, though, just a doctor, not a scientist or a pilot or even a bricklayer. McCoy was a doctor and wasn't that enough? He knew how to treat several hundred different species on a wing and a prayer, he had the chops to create a cure for any number of exotic viruses and infections they'd run into. He could heal their wounds, tend to their ills. What the hell else did they _need_ from him?

As it turned out, they needed any number of things. Doctor, mentor, counselor, spy.

McCoy's background in psychology was sketchy at best, but the past year had expanded in exponentially. Fact of the matter was, for all that they were an Constitution-class ship loaded with some of the best scientists and officers that Starfleet had to offer, they were also a bunch of kids loaded into a tin can that was floating in space, a long, long way from home and they weren't headed back any time soon.

It put McCoy in the rather unenviable position of surrogate father figure. Who else were they going to go to? Scotty had the years on him but not the understanding, Kirk had the understanding but he was the captain, and young, so young yet. He had enough troubles of his own. And Spock? A Vulcan attempting to soothe the overwrought emotions of humans? Christ on a cracker, you may as well ask a crocodile would he kindly be a vegetarian from here on out. If the crew had to go to Spock to ease their troubles, he thought there might just be a spike in suicide rates onboard.

That left him and though he'd never admit to it, truthfully, McCoy didn't mind much. He wasn't old enough to be a father to any of these kids, but they needed someone to pour their troubles out to, and if had to be him, so be it. He liked most of 'em and he might have been expecting to only treat their broken bones but a broken mind was still just as damaged and painful.

There was certainly a paper in all of this, somewhere, if he ever got the gumption to write it. If Starfleet intended on increasing the length of starship missions then they better damn well start getting councilors on board. He'd mentioned it to his superiors, but all that had landed him was more work. Keep track of the psychological effects of extended space travel, they'd said. That much he could do, but keeping track of it wasn't much help to the kids who were experiencing it.

It made the case in his hand, neatly filled with medical tricorders and hyposprays, less useful than the man who carried it, and there was a damned good reason that doctors hadn't been replaced by biobeds. Someone needed to be here to nurture the Human spirit., species notwithstanding.

Now, Medical Bay was the best place for those with a serious illness, but if an injured person really wanted to stay in his quarters, and if the doctor approved of it, they could. Thus, the doctors on the Enterprise actually did make house calls. McCoy didn't mind that much, either. A person was more likely to open up if they felt comfortable in their surroundings, he'd learned, and any idiot knew that an injured person might have more of a need to open up.

With that in mind, he strode briskly towards the quarters of the only injured person on the Enterprise. Chekov's ill-timed visit to Engineering had given him the gift that kept on giving; plasma burns. Easy enough to treat if they'd been standard burns and he'd gotten just enough information from Chekov and Scotty to know that they weren't standard. Just listening to the two of them gabble on about it had given him a headache. He swore, the two of them were a staggering combination of intelligence and reckless stupidity—

The kid was responding all right to the treatments, but McCoy had taken him off duty anyway. Better safe than sorry, he always said. He'd let the on call doctor handle it yesterday, since he hadn't been in much of a condition to drop in on patients, but the report wasn't nearly as satisfying as seeing it with his own eyes, making sure their resident young genius was getting the best care possible.

The door had slid open before he'd even had time to chime, a testament to the boredom of the occupant. Chekov was in his tiny sitting room, looking the chipper chickadee indeed, today. McCoy made a note to give the kid a thorough scan just to make sure he wasn't hiding any signs of pain in the hopes of getting back to the bridge. Had to give him credit for his determination, if not for his stubbornness.

McCoy sank down into the chair across from him and set his case on the floor. "How's it going this morning, kid?"

"Very well, Doctor," Chekov said politely, waving with one bandaged hand.

"Hrmph," McCoy muttered, not buying it. "All right, let's see 'em."

Obediently, he held out both hands, not even wincing as McCoy gently unwrapped them. Shiny pink skin greeted him, evidence of wounds healing quite well. It was a hell of a relief to see it but he ran the tricorder over them anyway, just to confirm what he already knew. The kid was going to be back to a hundred-percent in no time flat.

"They're looking much better today," McCoy finally said aloud, "I'll check back again tomorrow but I don't see any reason that you can't be back on duty in another day or so. He had to bite back a grin of his own as Chekov lit up, his wide smile blinding.

"This is wonderful news! I have been very bored," he confided, the thickness of his accent blurring the words but even that didn't hide the edge of anxiety in them.

McCoy gave him a stern look, "Try being bored a little more when you're on-duty, all right? I know you and Scotty weren't trying to stir up trouble but if either of you had bothered to wear the proper gear, you wouldn't be sitting here."

His grin dimmed a little, "_Da_, this I know."

He'd probably already heard an earful from Jim and Spock about it, so McCoy wasn't about to add more salt to the wound. Instead, he pulled out the dermal regenerator and went to work carefully on the healing burns. Slow and sure, that was the way to treat burns like these.

"No permanent harm done," McCoy said neutrally, glancing up briefly before refocusing on his work. "Let's keep it that way. I'm getting used to you, kid, and I don't want to have to break in a new guy anytime soon."

"Yes, sir," Chekov chirped, returning easily to his former cheeriness. Here was one crewmember who handled the stresses of space travel with a song in his heart, McCoy thought wryly. Burn him, break him, and he staggered back in for more. A fellow should admire his resilience. But it wasn't his resilience that McCoy was thinking of when the kid piped up again.

"Doctor, I wanted to tell you, I am very sorry to have missed your birthday," Chekov told him earnestly. He might have said more if he hadn't suddenly broke off with a yelp and a bright Russian curse, yanking his hand away from McCoy.

A new line of red was scrawled across his palm where McCoy had jerked in surprise and it took McCoy a moment to gather himself enough to take Chekov's hand back. The kid let him, a little reluctantly, but relaxed easily enough as McCoy healed the damage he'd just cause.

"Sorry," McCoy said, gruffly. "You surprised me, is all. Who the hell told you it was my birthday?"

"The captain," Chekov said, the wariness in his voice as heavy as his accent. His hand tensed a little as if he half-expected McCoy to give him a matching set for his troubles. But McCoy's grip was as steady as a doctor's should be, his mouth a grim line as he waited for Chekov to continue. "He…told us you did not celebrate, but I wanted just to tell you…birthdays were very important in my family," Chekov finished, a little lamely, and it didn't take a therapist to see his anxiety, his longing. Even this old country doctor could see it, enough to set aside his own issues for a just a bit.

"Well, thank you for remembering, then," McCoy said, carefully. "I'm not much for celebrating myself, but it…it's good that you remembered."

The uncertainty in his eyes eased, and Chekov smiled at him, happy again, "I did consider getting you a present, but the captain..."

"No presents!" McCoy said, hastily. Christ, that was all he needed. Chekov was barely even legal and like Jim wasn't trouble enough. With the perversity of all mental images that a person didn't really want to see, a brief thought of Chekov naked and eager, with that stupid grin still on his face, flashed into McCoy's thoughts. He suppressed a shudder, more than a little grateful that Chekov didn't have an ounce of telepathy to him.

He did make a mental note to check when Chekov's birthday was, though. McCoy might not want a gift but a kid who was far from home and from a family to whom birthdays were important might just appreciate a small present--

"Dr. McCoy to Medical Bay, priority one."

He was already on his feet and running before the computer had even finished, barely registering Chekov's shocked expression as he bolted through the door. Crew members walking the corridors scrambled out of his way and that was one good thing that came from Starfleet obedience training. If you saw the doctor running, you knew you needed to move your ass.

The lift at the end of the hall was open, two crewmen just stepping in, only to leap back as McCoy shoved rudely past them. "Out!" he snarled and they went, watching him with wide eyes as the doors closed.

A Priority One meant one thing. There was someone in his Medical Bay who was doing a damned good try at dying and they needed a doctor _now_ to convince them otherwise. It was just a fucking shame that the lift didn't care that he needed to be there two minutes ago, that there was someone dying, and that McCoy thought he could taste his own heartbeat, quivering shudders in his chest because he knew who had been on the away team on planet. Course he knew. The specifics of it eluded him at the moment; it had been a damned long week. Trade meeting, planetary exploration, who the hell knew? The only reason he knew there _was_ a mission was he'd read the morning report; he'd long since learned to glance over the details.

What he did know was both Spock and Jim had been down there, and he could feel the dampness of sweat on his upper lip, at the small of his back, because he also knew, very specifically, the ratio of injuries both of them tended to receive. Dimly, he thought that Spock might be appreciative of his knowledge, in that perverse Vulcan way. Statistics, mathematics, whatever it was fucking Vulcans masturbated over, he didn't damn well care right now. All he knew was that the lift couldn't respond to a single one of his silent urgings to go _faster_.

An eternity of waiting, second ticking by that he could have timed to the beats of his heart, before the door slid open on the proper floor. McCoy was squeezing through the door before it had had time to fully open, the sound of his boots loud in the corridor as he ran, skittering to a stop as the door to Medical Bay slid obediently open and revealed half the fucking crew in there.

Jim. God, had to be Jim.

Later, after times like these, when he was half-drunk in his quarters, cheap whiskey always his preferred form of therapy, McCoy was able to appreciate his own calmness. The way his vision cleared and his hands steadied, every ounce of medical knowledge he had surging to the forefront, shoving aside fear and emotion, and in these moments, he was every goddamned inch a doctor.

The sight of Jim sprawled out on the biobed, spattered with crimson splotches and dark burn marks didn't change that, and it didn't keep him from rudely pushing aside a few bystanders to check the readings. Chapel was already doing the same, working with an equal amount of calm efficiency. The biobed was already spewing out reading and just glancing at it, McCoy could already see two things; one, Jim was going to be fine and two, none of the people milling around in Medical Bay realized that. There was a lot of blood, true, and if he'd been stuck down on the planet things would have been a lot hairier, but he wasn't, and that was that.

"Get the hell out of the way," McCoy barked. "All of you. Out!" They obeyed the voice of authority like the good little officers they were, the cloud of people disappearing like so much vapor, revealing another figure who had been standing back, out of the way. Spock, his clothes stained with as many dark scarlet smears as Jim's were. McCoy was no detective but he didn't think it took much of one to figure out that Spock had carried his captain, his...whatever the hell they were, to Med Bay.

He was already drifting towards the door, obviously ready to take advantage of McCoy's orders and get out while the getting was good. Spock was no doctor but he was a scientist and he'd know how to check the reading enough to see that Jim wasn't in any danger.

A shot of emotion managed to slice cleanly though McCoy's calm and he looked up from his initial assessment long enough to snap out. "Not you, Spock. Sit."

Spock stilled instantly, almost staggering in his efforts to stop and that unnamed emotion tightened again in McCoy's chest. Not all of the blood on his uniform was red. It was interspersed with deep green and red splatters, like the universe's worst Christmas joke. One dark green line was grimed against Spock's cheek, too far away for McCoy to see if it was an actual injury or just a smear.

Spock folded his hands into the small of his back and stood stiffly, Goddamned stubborn..."Doctor, I believe you should focus your attention on the captain."

McCoy didn't even look up, already calibrating the dermal regenerator that Chapel had slapped briskly into his hand. Readings indicated that Jim had sustained moderate blood loss, which the biobed was already replacing, minor burns from an unknown weapon, and a severe laceration across the abdomen which was the primary location of the blood loss. No internal injuries, no organ repair or replacement necessary.

Frankly, they hadn't needed McCoy to bust a gut getting here but since he would have chewed them out later if they _hadn't_ called him, well, he couldn't blame them much for it. Lucky little Jimmy had come through with his skin intact again, or at least most of it. His First Officer, on the other hand...

Spock was already swaying in the direction of the door again, taking one step back, then another.

McCoy flicked on the dermal regenerator and started on the laceration first.

"Pick a bed and sit your ass down, _Commander_, or should I make it an order?" He had the authority, they both knew it.

"Of course," Spock said stiffly, giving in with all the grace a Vulcan could manage as he settled himself somewhat gingerly on the biobed next to Jim's. Just the fact that he was showing any discomfort meant he must've been in a hell of a lot of pain. Vulcans had a pain tolerance that rivaled any drunken asshole from back home, even one on a Saturday night.

The wound was closing nicely, not so much as a mark on the smooth skin of Jim's belly. Pure textbook doctoring and McCoy could have done it blindfolded. Instead, he eyed his other patient, considering. Pale enough that his skin had a visible greenish cast, the biobed spitting out readings on his vitals, pain levels...damn, they were through the roof. "Chapel, give him an analgesic."

That got a good round of reaction. From Chapel, who murmured, "Yes, Doctor," as she readied a hypo, to Spock, whose spine stiffened like he'd just had a broomstick shoved up his ass.

"That will not necessary, " Spock said tersely, leaning away from her.

"Don't recall asking you." McCoy mumbled, neatly cutting off the remains of Jim's shirt. Another emotion managed to worm its way past his calm as he gently healed the various abrasions and contusions. Ruthlessly, McCoy pushed it back before he even allowed himself to consider what it was. They were fine, the both of them, and they'd both be back on their feet, ready to destroy more of their clothing soon enough. Starfleet must have a hellava uniform budget for the Enterprise.

Spock was fending off Chapel with as much dignity as he could. "I am fully capable of controlling my own pain, Doctor, and I do not like to be medicated when it is unnecessary."

That finally tipped McCoy over the edge into the enough is enough territory. Just who was the doctor here, damn it. Discreetly, McCoy picked up a hypo and in one smooth motion, he loaded it one-handed and pressed it against Spock's neck while he was turned away.

Vulcans all declared that they were purely logical, emotionless bastards but it sure as hell wasn't logic flashing in Spock's eyes when he whipped his head around to glare at McCoy. Shame he didn't have time to appreciate it, since he was taking care of a patient here, what with being a doctor and all that.

"I did not require...I did not..."Spock tried, words slurring and he didn't have a protest left in him as Chapel helped him lay back on the biobed.

"Can't hear you, Commander, speak up," McCoy murmured, his eyes on Jim. There were a few more slurred words behind him, too blurry to understand and he didn't bother to try. Christ almighty, Jim was a mess. A mass contusions, most of them already blooming into wildflower patches of purple, Each one vanished under the proper application of good old (century) medicine, but it took a little time for each one to fade under his coaxing fingertips. What the hell had they gotten into down there, a rock slide?

He knew the moment that Spock finally succumbed because Chapel was back next to him, rearranging his instruments into the proper order after McCoy flung each one aside and picked up another.

"Readings indicate minor lacerations and contusions, mild dehydration and exhaustion, Doctor," Chapel informed him.

"Start fluids and make sure he stays put." Not that he needed to state the obvious, Chapel was too damned good a nurse not to already be two steps ahead of him. "Let me finish up with Jimmy-Boy here and then we'll see about getting him back on his feet."

"Yes, Doctor."

Surrounded by the soft beeps of the computer and the soothing hum of the biobeds, McCoy settled into doing what he did best; being a doctor.

* * *

Didn't take too long to get Jim settled in, every tiny injury seen to and soothed, healed and fussed over, until McCoy was confident that each one had been cared for, and then he drugged the hell out of his captain so he'd damn well stay in Sickbay for rest of the day. Might be teetering on the edge of ethical there, but McCoy didn't much care and Jim could wait a while before going back down to negotiate with the rock people, or whatever the hell they'd been doing planetside. McCoy still hadn't bothered to ask but he might before they go back down.

A drugged out Jim was a nicely quiet one, sprawled out and snoring faintly beneath the blanket that Chapel had spread over him and McCoy allowed himself the luxury of checking on his stats just one more time...

_-stable, heart rate normal, blood pressure normal-_

...before he checked on his other patient. Chapel had cleaned Spock up and treated his injuries, minor contusions and a couple of cracked ribs which explained the pain he'd been in earlier, and there was a certain glazed look in his eyes that declared that McCoy had overdone it a little on the painkillers. He knew he had a reputation for being downright stingy with his meds but the truth of it was, he had no qualms about dosing it out when it was actually necessary.

"Looks like you're going to live, Spock," McCoy said briskly, punching a last scan into the biobed to make sure nothing had been missed. Computers were only as thorough as a fellow made them, after all.

"Of course. Had I been in any danger, I would have certainly realized it."

"Of course," McCoy mimicked. The biobed beeped, spitting out a clean, if inebriated, bill of health. "Well, you have a choice then. You can stay here a bit and rest, or you can go back to your quarters. Take your pick and don't even ask about going to the bridge today. It's bed, Doctor's orders."

Spock sat up, carefully, the soft blue pajamas that Chapel had gotten for him hanging slightly on his slim form. "If that is the case, I would prefer my quarters but I do not believe I am capable of walking to them at this moment."

Not unless he wanted to collapse in the corridor halfway there. Of course, McCoy could counteract the analgesic, but then Spock would be in some pain. Even healing the broken bones wouldn't alleviate all the microscopic bruising and injury and it was better not to over process the tissues. "Tell you what, I'll give you hand there and get you settled in if you agree that if you feel anything out of the ordinary, you hightail it back here. Deal?"

"As you say."

It wasn't until he'd gotten Spock to his feet and looped an arm under his shoulders that it hit him. That _heat_, Vulcan body temperature degrees above Human, pressed all along his side. Pressed against him and McCoy felt a flush rise in his cheeks had nothing to do with temperature.

Goddamned pointy-eared, slim-hipped...pretty, in the same way Jim was pretty and the pressure of his body against McCoy's hip brought with it a flood of recent memories, every one of them involving Spock wearing considerably less.

"Where are we headed?" McCoy asked gruffly, clearing his throat a little. It was a damned good thing he already had a reputation for being brusque, he didn't even want to consider the kind of reputation his thoughts would be earning him otherwise.

"I believe I am capable of leading the way," Spock informed him dryly, and so McCoy let him and tried not to feel the body that was rubbing against his own with every step.

It was only when they were on the lift that McCoy realized they weren't heading to Jim's quarters. He hadn't really thought about where Spock slept, or Jim for that matter, but he'd assumed where ever it was, it was together. But he knew Jim was still in his own quarters, as captain, he needed to be, and Spock--maybe Spock liked to sleep in his own room when he was hurt?

Impossible to tell by looking. He'd never been in Spock's quarters before but the sparseness of the furnishings looked like the usual. Who the hell knew what kind of junk Vulcans liked to haul around with them, for all he knew, Jim's quarters were brimming to the gills with padds and weird Vulcan knicknacks.

He didn't have much time to think about it. Spock was steady enough on his feet but McCoy could tell he was fading fast. He got him into the bedroom, Standard regulation size, blankets, and sheets, thank you, and into the bed.

Eased off Spock's borrowed slippers and pulled up the blankets, and told himself he wasn't fussing like an old grandmother, he was a doctor, it was his job to make sure his patients were comfortable. Warm. Spock was tucked into the blankets like a little child, watching McCoy with dark eyes and it was hard to admit, harder than McCoy wanted to believe, that he didn't want to leave just yet. He wanted to _touch_, just a little, reassure with his hands that what he could see with his own eyes was true. He had two fingertips pressed into the inside of Spock's wrist in an archaic form of pulse taking because that he could excuse, could allow, he was a _doctor_.

But it wasn't enough. Not with his calm tenderly breaking off around him, every emotional shield he had quivering at the point of shattering. He'd been safe in med bay, surrounded by tools of the trade, shored up by his nurses and hyposprays but now he was here, with Spock, and there had been so much blood, so much of their blood, and he just wanted, he just needed--

Only he hadn't gotten a list of rules when he agreed to this foolhardy little ménage a trois, was he even allowed to need this? Was he allowed to do anything or was he supposed to hang around waiting like a kid after school for them to invite him in?

He didn't know. So instead he sat here like a fool, taking the small contact that he could excuse and in a moment, he'd leave, get the hell away from here before all his emotions shattered their sharp little pieces around him with the one person who he knew would appreciate it the least.

Or so he thought, until Spock said, quietly, "If you wish to touch me, you will certainly get no objection from me. I do understand the irrational desire to reassure oneself."

For a long moment, all McCoy could do was gape at him, "How—" He closed his mouth with a snap before any other foolishness could tumble out. Touch telepath. Of course.

Having permission granted only made McCoy head towards the opposite, yanking his hand away. Or he tried to, before Spock caught it neatly, held it with both gentleness and strength, and that was almost worse than feeling like a fool. He was well and truly caught for the moment and close to snarling at Spock to let him the hell go when Spock loosened his grip, stroked his thumb lightly across McCoy's knuckles.

"Doc—Leonard," he said, softly, "I cannot read more than your surface thoughts and I will endeavor to prevent that if you wish." And just like that, the tension that had started bubbling up in McCoy like fizz in soda water eased and he could breathe again.

"Don't hurt yourself," McCoy snorted, ignored the shakiness in his voice. Hesitantly, he pulled his hand free, stroked his fingertips lightly over Spock's like he'd had done to him a couple times now. Over the back of his hand, to his fingertips and then down his palms.

The response was gratifying. Spock made a soft, pleased sound, sighing as he sank back against the pillows. It made McCoy bolder, stroking his fingers between Spock's.

"It is fascinating to note that of the times we have been together thusly, one of us has always been some form of intoxicated," Spock murmured, his eyes half-closed as he watched McCoy stroking his hand.

"I wasn't drunk the second time."

"No," Spock agreed. "But neither were you thinking clearly. I may have taken a slight advantage of that."

A slight advantage? As the guy who'd been pinned to the desk, McCoy had a thing or three to say about that, but it would have to wait. Instead, he conceded, just a little. "Maybe. Can I ask you something? Why would you do that, anyway? Why the hell do you even want me if you have Jim? I don't get this." If Spock had taken advantage of him to get a little piece of ass, it seemed pretty fair to do the same to get a little information.

"That is several somethings. I am not sure I am capable of properly answering even one at this moment," Spock closed his eyes and slumped lower into the bed, but when McCoy would have let guilt settle thickly in his gut and slunk back to sickbay, Spock spoke again. "However…I took advantage of your less than inebriated state because that is the only time you can be taken advantage of. As a Vulcan, I admit to some admiration of your ability to shield yourself from others."

Shield...? "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"If I hadn't kissed you that night, you would have either removed me from your quarters physically or removed yourself mentally. On your birthday," Spock added, like McCoy would have forgotten which night. "If I hadn't touched you in your office and kept you from building your shields back up, you would not be here now." Spock spoke with quiet certainty, even as he gently twined his fingers with McCoy's, keeping him from pulling away.

"I…shields? I'm no telepath." McCoy said, a little weakly. Hell, maybe he had given Spock a little too much in the drug department.

"And yet, you surround yourself with barriers as impenetrable as the strongest practitioner of the kolinahr." Spock opened his eyes again, his dark gaze slitted against the brightness of the room. "You do not understand and I am not capable of explaining in this moment. We do not talk well together, you and I."

"No, we don't," McCoy agreed, a little wryly. At least that made sense. "Believe you suggested before that we try a different kind of communication."

"I did but I would be unable to reciprocate at this moment," Spock said apologetically. His fingers never stilled, moving softly against McCoy's.

"S'all right. I don't mind."

And he didn't, not one damned bit. Not when he could finally, finally, pull Spock's hand up to his lips and kiss every knuckle, run his tongue between his fingers. Listen to him gasp when he curled his tongue over the soft pad of his forefinger and that little sound was as good as permission, made McCoy muss the blankets he'd so carefully arranged and just touch.

Smooth skin dusted with dark, silky hair, not as coarse as he'd expect in a human and that was a little reminder there, that this was Spock that he was touching, that he wanted to touch and McCoy didn't have to say anything at all. Didn't have to admit that it'd been years, years upon years, since he'd really done this, drunken encounters aside. Since he'd consciously helped another person out of their clothes, since he'd leaned down and licked a dark nipple, felt it harden against his tongue.

He'd had more sex in the past few days than he'd had in the past five years but every other time he'd had to be little more than a willing receptacle. He could just lay there and let it all happen to him, let it wash over him like rain in the springtime.

This, he had to do himself.

If he'd let himself notice, McCoy would have seen the tremor in his hands as he slid them down Spock's slim hips, down his thighs. Shaking in a palsy that a doctor should never allow. But he wasn't a doctor here, not really, not with Spock naked against the sheets, faint gleam of sweat shining on his skin. God damn, just...McCoy never could have guessed that Spock could look so much like pure sex, never would have tried to dream he'd want nothing more than to touch him, right now.

Slid his shaking hands between Spock's legs and he had a long, slender cock, much like the man himself. If he'd been expecting something extraordinary, McCoy would have been sorely disappointed. Whoever had created the universe had been remarkable unimaginative in His creation of the genitalia of most humanoid species.

Ordinary or not, it felt like something unreal to touch, to wrap his hand around that hot, _hot,_ length, to lean over and press his lips to the damp tip and taste soft moisture, faint bitterness that was as fundamental as the blood he'd been splattered with earlier.

Hesitantly, McCoy let Spock press up between his lips, let him sift his hand into McCoy's hair and guide him, hold him lightly. Begging with a touch and he was helpless not to comply, felt his eyes stinging as he took Spock almost too deep, sucking and releasing clumsily, Christ, it had been years, and he fumbled for Spock's free hand with his own, felt the grind of his bones in the too-tight grip.

It took only a few moments of forever, tension prickling at his temples as McCoy sucked hard, let his teeth just scrape over taut, sensitive skin, and he felt as much as heard Spock choke off a cry, felt him tense and he expected the wet burst across the back of his tongue, swallowed without thought as Spock jerked softly beneath him.

The grip on the back of his neck eased enough for him to pull off and McCoy did, but he didn't try yet to pull his hand free even though it ached from Spock's grip. His mouth felt swollen, lips red, his jaw too-loose and aching, still salt-bitter and hot. He wondered at how he looked, if he walked into the corridor would anyone know what they'd been doing behind that closed door?

Better not to think about it, maybe. He'd stay a bit longer and then go check on Jim.

Spock's eyes were closed, more asleep than not McCoy figured and he carefully pulled his fingers free, tugged the blankets back over Spock before he could get a chill. Sat there and stroked all the wrinkles from the blankets, until Spock's breathing was slow and even and then he stood to go.

And yelped aloud as Spock grabbed his wrist, glazed eyes slitting open.

"Jesus, take it easy--"

A soft, whispered stream of Vulcan, words that McCoy couldn't piece together with his limited knowledge of the language.

"Say something a person can understand, would you?"

A soft exhale, and Spock closed his eyes again, "If I were Human, perhaps I would be jealous of you."

What the fuck...this was not the kind of pillow talk McCoy could remember ever having. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

A soft blink, and McCoy could see Spock's eyes were still dilated, dark pupils wide, "He cannot help but love me. He chooses to love you."

"Don't." McCoy said thickly, don't, Christ, don't. He was not up to dealing with any inebriated ramblings, not now. He tugged hard at his wrist, yanking bruises into it that he'd have to heal later as Spock refused to release him.

"Doctor, you have been sexually involved with him for years now, surely you are aware of his feelings."

Drugged or not, that was fucking calculated, Doctor, not Leonard, not anything else. "We weren't!"

"Ah, yes. A birthday ceremony, only." Sharp as a laser scalpel, mocking and cool, and just then, McCoy hated him, hated the thick taste still on the back of his tongue. And then everything about Spock abruptly softened, gentled, his fingertips soothing the red lines on McCoy's wrist that he'd caused. "Leonard, Jim has many friends and to my knowledge, none of them have been the recipient of oral sex as a gift, no matter how auspicious the occasion."

"I can't do this right now...I need to...I have to get back to Sick Bay, I'm still on duty." McCoy managed, and finally, Spock let him go. On duty, sure, and sucking off his first officer, what the hell was he thinking? What the hell was he _doing_? So busy playing therapist for the rest of the crew and here he was doing..."I need to go," he repeated, backing towards the door.

"Yes," Spock agreed, softly, already sleep-blurred. "Take care of Jim."

"Always do." It was automatic because it was true. He always took care of Jim, always. He had to, someone had to, and he was a doctor. He was good at taking care of people.

"I'll check in on you later," McCoy said, weakly, and it was a lie and he knew it. He'd send someone else, and maybe they wouldn't be a doctor, but they'd be able to check on Spock without...they'd be able to check on Spock.

Spock didn't reply, finally asleep, resting properly like a patient should and McCoy turned and walked carefully out, started back to Sickbay and then changed his mind and went instead to get his equipment from Chekov's room. The kid was still in his sitting room when McCoy stepped in, a surreal moment of déjà vu that had him shaking his head.

"Is everything all right, Doctor?" Chekov asked him anxiously, holding out one of his hands for McCoy to go over laboriously with the dermal regenerating.

"Everything is fine," McCoy told him gruffly, absently rubbing the back of his free hand over his mouth.

Chekov looked at him consideringly, the grumpy doctor bent over his sore, pinkened hand, and nearly asked him if something was wrong. Doctor McCoy was blustery as an old bear on the outside but Chekov knew at his heart he was a tender, caring man who had visited him far more often than was required, reassuring him time and again that he would heal Chekov's hands to the best of his abilities.

Today, he seemed troubled and Chekov would have been happy to help him, happy to return his caring. At the last moment, though, he bit it back and kept his silence. If the doctor wanted to speak to someone, surely he would do it at his own choosing. He hardly needed a kid, as McCoy so often called him, to interfere.

They sat together in silence, the doctor and his patien, hands held together in mechanical healing.

-finis-


End file.
